


Give me a Sign (I want to believe)

by HarmonySong



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Brendon Urie is a cutie, F/M, Past eating disorder, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers, attempted suicide, mentions of eating disorders, suicidal ideations, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 59,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmonySong/pseuds/HarmonySong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your life has never been all that good, what with the constant bullying, depression, and pain you inflict on yourself. But, recently, it's gotten to a point when even the voice of the lead singer in your favorite band can't help. Then, a chance encounter with the man himself leaves you, for once, hopeful for your future. Maybe things will finally begin to turn around?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nicotine

**Author's Note:**

> For this particular AU, Brendon isn't married to, nor has he ever been in a relationship with, Sarah. I apologize to Sarah, but for one, it'd make things in this fic even more complicated, and I also don't know almost anything about her so I'd most likely get her characterization wrong ^.^

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: self-harm, depression, suicidal thoughts, and past eating disorders. If this triggers you at all, I ask that you do NOT read any part of this fic for your own safety :)

You glare down at your arm in disgust, watching the tiny rivulets of blood run down it and onto the bathroom floor. You're aware that letting that happen means you'll have to spend longer cleaning up after yourself, but somehow, watching your blood run onto the bathroom tiles is almost comforting, therapeutic much like the pain the blood accompanies. 

_Worthless. You're worthless._

You feel the urge to add another line to the several fresh ones already there but you resist. You hate this, hurting yourself only to add scars to your arm, making yourself even more of a freak than you were. But you need it, too. It's like a drug; you hate it but you crave it at the same time. Every line distracts you for the barest instant, but at the same time gives you even more to hate yourself about. It's a vicious circle you've gotten yourself stuck in and you're not sure you can get out. 

After a few minutes of the silent self-loathing that's become part of your ritual since basically the beginning of time, you breathe deeply and will yourself to snap out of it. Your parents are going to be home any minute, and although they might not be the best parents ever, you still doubt they'd like to see their child standing in a bathroom with blood on the floor, on her arm, on the metallic, silvery blade of the razor clutched loosely in her dominant hand.

So, with a sigh that echoes surprisingly in the tiled room, you grab a couple of paper towels from the roll you keep in there- much better than using an actual, regular towel and having to explain why the hell there are brown stains on it- and get to work on the floor, leaving your arm untended to for the moment. You know you deserve the extra pain- no matter how most of you might not like it- especially after the events of the past month. 

Thankfully, you hadn't allowed the blood to dry on the floor- even with tiled floors, it would've been a pain in the ass to clean- and, within a minute or so, you've basically cleaned all of it up. 

You quickly tear off a double sized paper towel and put the bloodied, used ones in the middle, carefully wrapping it as neatly as you can. When a bit of the blood leaks through the thin covering, you sigh and add another. You can't let anyone know- you hate yourself enough already for doing it. You can't imagine what someone else's reaction would be and honestly, you've been the outcast for long enough already. You really don't need to add anything to your reputation. 

Once you're done cleaning up the floor, you move on to your arm, rather harshly cleaning and disinfecting it- you'd rather die than let anybody see what you've done to yourself. Although, seeing as you've been tempted to kill yourself several times without anyone even knowing about the cuts, that's not really saying a lot. 

Pulling yourself abruptly out of your thoughts, you carefully put band-aids over the cuts- again, if anyone saw a dark stain in your sweatshirt there's a chance you'd be found out and you can't let that happen-, pull your sweatshirt sleeve back down, and give the bathroom a final once-over. When it meets your inspection, you open the door and flee to your room, where you promptly grab your phone and earbuds; they're your only source of solace these days, whether that be through YouTube or iTunes and you know that without them, you'd probably already have offed yourself. You find a playlist containing a list of your favorite bands and press play, swiftly putting the earbuds in your ears and plugging in the cord in order to miss as little as possible. 

But the moment you hear what your phone had, by virtue of shuffle play, chosen, you press the next song button, almost faster than you can blink. It's a song you know far, far too well- Hurricane by Panic! At The Disco. 

You've been in love with Panic! for years; they've always been one of the bands you could rely on, whether to help you vent your frustration by screaming out the tune with them or to provide comfort when you had a particularly bad day, but recently... 

You sigh, biting your lip as the first words of My Chemical Romance's Fake Your Death begin playing. You can't really say what's given you this aversion to Panic!. You suppose, maybe, in a way, as your depression, as well as the bullying you receive, had gotten worse, that maybe, in some way, you began to not be able to bear them anymore because even they could no longer get through to you.

And, well, when Brendon fucking Urie himself can no longer get through to you, incredible voice and face be damned...

Well, that's when you realize you have something called a  _problem._

 

* * *

 

Well, it turns out you were definitely wrong about something. Your parents hadn't seem to care in the least when you'd shown up the next day after school with a black eye and ribs that hurt to even fucking breathe. They'd just seemed to think you'd started the fight and that you deserved what you'd gotten. And, well, maybe they were right. Not about the starting the fight part- unless you can start a fight by doing nothing but existing- but about deserving what you'd gotten. 

So that's how you'd ended up in the only place you knew of that you wouldn't be bothered in- an abandoned old dance studio that's been your secret refuge since the first time you found it years ago. 

For once, you unplug the earbuds, knowing there's no one around to hear and judge your taste in music, clicking shuffle in the same playlist as yesterday. As soon as the first note hits your ears, you curse. 

Of fucking course it had to be that one. 

_Cross my heart and hope to die,_

_Burn my lungs and curse my eyes._

Of all Panic!'s songs, this one was the one you connected to the most. Although you'd never actually smoked, you couldn't help but think you had an addiction as painful as the drug- a relationship with pain as toxic as the one Brendon had with his lover. 

_I've lost control and I don't want it back,_

_I'm going numb, I've been hijacked,_

_It's a fucking drag._

You hesitate, finger over the next button. You know that you're probably going to burst into tears if you keep listening to it- you can see your vision already begin to blur- but, you suppose, you can let that happen, just this once. It's hard to be strong all the time, after all. And what's the point of being strong if there's no one around to keep the facade up around? 

"I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you," you start quietly, biting your lip briefly in an attempt to quell the tears so you don't sound like a dying whale. But then again, there's no one around to hear you but yourself. "So I say 'damn your kiss and the awful things you do', yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine," you take a deep breath to steady yourself, "Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah." 

You attempt to check your sobs again in the short interlude between verses but fail, miserably. So by the time the second verse comes around and you start singing, "It's better to burn than to fade away, better to leave than to be replaced," you're full out sobbing. 

"I'm losing to you, baby I'm no match, I'm going numb, I've been hijacked..." you trail off for a moment, sniffling and missing the end of the line. "I taste you on my lips and I can't get rid of you," you half-choke out, most likely sounding pathetic but you don't care. "So I say damn your kiss and the awful things you do. Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah." 

You look down at your covered arm, not daring to lift it up even in the cover of an abandoned dance studio- there's always the chance of someone watching, never a guarantee of safety- and start on the bridge. "Just one more hit and then we're through, cause you could never love me back." for a moment, you think you hear someone's footsteps, the soft squeak of leather on leather, but you've been known to have an overactive imagination, so you ignore it, although you do try to cut back a little on the sobs. "Cut every tie I had to you, cause your love's a fucking drag, but I need it so bad..." you choke out another sob and miss the beginning of the next phrase. "...but I need it so bad, yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine..." vaguely, you're aware of another soft voice behind you, singing along with you. Once again, you ignore it. 

"Yeah, you're worse than nicotine, nicotine, yeah." Behind you, you hear soft footsteps and you instantly freeze, pressing the pause button so quickly you're certain your fingers were a blur, yanking your earbuds out and spinning around.

And then you freeze again. 

_No fucking way._

There, in front of you, as unfairly attractive as you've ever seen him, stands Brendon Urie himself, a shy smile lifting up one corner of his lips. 

"B-Brendon," you choke out and instantly regret it. "I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have," you stammer quickly. "I don't even know you, I shouldn't be calling you by your fir-"

"Hey, no, it's fine," he interrupts. "I'm used to it, don't worry." he laughs slightly, one eyebrow raised as he realizes you didn't join in. "Hey, um, are you okay?" 

The first instinct you have is to scream  _I'm not o-fucking-kay_ at him, Gerard Way style, but you're pretty sure he's already seen the tear tracks and black eye, as well as heard your supremely embarrassing, sob edition cover of his song, so you hold back from what you know would further alienate him, and simply turn away. "I'm fine," you say as steadily as possible.

"Bullshit," he responds instantly. You struggle to not recoil. You're used to physical pain by now, especially when you take into account your... extracurricular activities that take place in the bathroom every day, but insults have always been harder to take, no matter how small. You blame your depression. 

"It's not," you answer, much too quiet for your liking. You want to just curl up in a ball and be swallowed into oblivion at the moment. Your idol, the man you've been obsessed with for  _years,_ is finally talking to you, only to be rapidly discovering just how much of a pathetic, worthless nut-job of a human being you are.

For a moment, stringing up the rope sitting in the corner of the darkly lit room and hanging yourself on it doesn't seem like too bad of an idea. 

"Yes, it is," Brendon snaps; this time you can't stop yourself and flinch. You curse inwardly. You would have much preferred the getting angry response, but no, you had to respond like a fucking baby and flinch. And, of course, because the world hates you, Brendon notices. "I'm- I'm sorry," he stammers awkwardly, lowering his tone to something oddly soothing. 

"It's fine," you reply, turning away from him. The less you see of him, the less you'll remember his face when he realizes how much of a pathetic girl you are. 

"No, it's  _not,"_ he says, still keeping his voice quiet despite the words. You hear footsteps on the wood, then the squeak of leather as he sits down next to you. "Come on," he whines after a few seconds of silence, and you bet that if you turned to look at him he'd be sporting that puppy dog look on his face that only Brendon can pull off that good. "I won't tell anyone else, I promise."

You resist the urge to huff. He's a celebrity- and not just any celebrity, your idol- and he just offered to listen to you. You're just waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it doesn't seem to come. 

You feel a hand tentatively circle around your shoulders and flinch automatically from the unexpected, though not unwelcome, contact. You're just not used to touch, even when it's not skin-to-skin contact, but Brendon doesn't seem to realize that and draws back sharply. 

"Sorry," he says quickly. You turn to look him full in the face for the first time and shake your head, quickly looking away in order to not be caught staring at him and looking even weirder. 

"No, it was... fine," you reply quickly, not exactly sure how to respond to something like this. "I'm just..." you wrack your brain for something that doesn't sound pathetic and come up blank. 

"You're just?" Brendon prompts. You feel his gaze on your shoulders and once more try not to flinch. 

"I'm just not used to people touching me," you mutter out unwillingly, waiting for the taunt, the mocking laugh, anything you're accustomed to hearing- don't get you wrong, you think Brendon's amazing, but even he couldn't help but think you're anything other than a worthless, pathetic freak. 

"I'm sorry," Brendon says again, making you want to scream because it's not his fault, it's yours. "I won't do it again."

You don't answer. You're not sure how to. There's no real way to tell a celebrity you actually enjoyed the contact without sounding like a creep, even though it was, for you, more about just the simple fact that you were being touched and it didn't hurt than the fact that it was Brendon fucking Urie doing it. 

"So," Brendon continues after an awkward moment of silence where you were surprised he didn't just get up and leave, "Since you won't tell me what's bothering you, why don't you tell me something else about yourself?" he pauses, giving you just enough time to begin to freak out before continuing, "Or do you want me to just... babble?" 

You shrug. 

Brendon laughs lightly, bringing a slightly unwilling, automatic smile to your own face- you swear it's like an automated reflex whenever you hear or see him laugh. "I guess you get to get bored to death by me, then." he starts talking- about the weather, how he's been, his favorite foods- and you sit back and listen. Sure, you like talking, too, but it's comforting hearing Brendon's voice in your ear. As he talks, you find yourself subconsciously inching closer to him, only realizing you're doing it when you can literally feel your knees touch through the pair of jeans you're wearing. As soon as you do, you practically bolt away from him. Sure, sitting that close to your idol is something you've wanted to do basically all your life, but come on, he just literally met you as you were sobbing your way through a song with a black eye and a dislike of being touched. 

Also, you just don't think you're ready for any kind of physical intimacy at all. Of course the idea of bedding Brendon is appealing, but you know that for one, there's absolutely no way he'd find you that attractive, and two, he's going to see your scars if he does so. The idea of being that vulnerable with  _anyone_ is unnerving, let alone with someone you've looked up to for years. 

"Was it something I said?" Brendon asked lightly, breaking you from your thoughts with an amused expression on his face. 

"N-no," you stammer out. "I just, I..." you trail off with literally no idea how to say what you're thinking. But, apparently, Brendon's a mind reader, because he just grins and motions with his hand. "Come here." 

You follow his command, sliding back over towards him slightly uncertainly. Once you get within touching distance of him, he opens his arms, raising an eyebrow when you don't immediately respond and motioning with a finger. "Do I have to say it again?" 

You eye his arms for a moment, not certain if you should do this. On the one hand, it would be the closest thing to a hug you've had for months; on the other, if you're not careful, your sweatshirt sleeve could pull up and expose your scars. 

"Do you not love me after all?" he pouts sadly, sticking out his bottom lip.

Without hesitating, you grin and reply, "In your dreams," sliding a little closer to him automatically. He rolls his eyes and, apparently fed up with your stalling, leans forward and encloses you in his arms. You automatically relax into his touch, feeling safe for approximately one second before it fades and you struggle to sit back up.

"What, are my hugging skills not up to date?" Brendon asks, pouting in mock-hurt but loosening his hold on you a bit. You shake your head quickly, not able to let Brendon think that any of this is his fault. 

"No, it's, they're fine," you reply quickly, wanting to relax back into his arms- if not for the fact that it's  _Brendon Urie,_ then just for the simple fact that it's the first time you've ever really been held like this.

"Lean back, then," Brendon retorts, pulling you gently back towards him. You don't resist, somehow realizing that, if you didn't want him to hold you, he'd let you go in an instant.

"Why are you doing this?" You can't help but ask after a moment. No one's ever really been nice to you; that Brendon's doing this... well, let's just say that it definitely gives you an even higher opinion of Brendon than before.

You feel Brendon's shoulders lift in a shrug. "You looked like you needed a hug, I guess." 

"Well, aren't you selfless," you retort, intentionally putting a bit of sarcasm in your words in order to not alarm him. 

"I do try," he shoots back, smirking. The two of you sit in silence before he continues. "By the way, what's your name? You already know mine, so it's a fair trade for me to get yours, too." 

You smile slightly. "It's (Y/N)," you respond, slightly touched by the fact he actually asked. 

"Awesome," he responds with a grin. "Great name, I like it." you struggle not to blush. You can't even remember the last time someone complimented you and now your fucking  _idol_ just did. What even is your life? 

"Is it hard?" you blurt out suddenly and instantly want to clamp a hand over your mouth.

"Is what hard?"

"Just, the celebrity lifestyle," you mutter, wanting to disappear. "Having everyone know everything about you all the time. It must be exhausting." you know that if everyone knew about your lifestyle, you'd probably have already killed yourself. There's no way you would be able to survive all the hate you'd get if people knew about that. 

"It has its up and downs," Brendon replies with a shrug, pulling you from your thoughts. "Met some amazing people, done some great things, but the fans can be a bit crazy sometimes." he offers you a grin. "Kinda hoping you won't be one of them, although I doubt anyone could top that one fan who was going on and on about pancakes, or something." he laughs a bit, before sobering up a bit, although he still has a glint of mischief in his eyes. "You aren't... are you?" 

You can't tell him about your cuts, your suicidal ideations, the few bouts of anorexia you'd gotten. You can't let your one actually okay memory of your life be soured by him pulling away from you in disgust. "Unless you count getting a couple C's in math," you retort as lightly as you can, making Brendon grin. 

"I hated upper level maths," he tells you, pulling a face. "The only thing that made school bearable was music."

"Tell me about it," you respond without thinking. He turns you in his arms so he can look a bit more squarely in your face. 

"How is it? School, that is." 

"Fine," you answer quickly. Too quickly. Brendon's eyes narrow and you quickly try to recover. "I mean, the teachers suck but overall it's okay, bearable really." 

"You're looking away from me," Brendon says, tone dropping into something unreadable. 

"I don't like looking at people." not exactly a lie; you find it hard to maintain eye contact a lot of the time. It's just, this time, you were lying to a celebrity you like, a lot. So, you know, that might be a little bit different. 

"It's more than that," Brendon retorts, arm muscles tightening around you although he doesn't make an attempt to get you to look at him. "I bet you can't look me in the eye and tell me school's great."

 _Why does he even care?_ You wonder. He's a celebrity. He meets people like Jennifer Lawrence and Patrick Stump every day. He doesn't need to worry about how one unknown girl finds school. 

"I never said school was great," you retort rather weakly. "I said it was bearable." Brendon huffs but doesn't challenge you; something you're grateful for. You kinda want to enjoy this time while you have it. 

"So why did you come here?" you ask him, breaking the silence after awhile. "It's not exactly a five star hotel, you know."

"Really?" he retorts with a snort. "I hadn't noticed."

You give him a half-hearted glare and a roll of your eyes, which makes him grin. "We're doing a new music video soon. I was looking for a good site to film it." 

You instantly brighten up, although you endeavor not to show it. "Really? What song is it for?"

Brendon laughs, giving you a mischievous smirk. "Well, let's keep that a surprise, what do you say?"

"I hate surprises," you complain, sticking out your lower lip and giving him a pleading look, but it only serves to make him laugh some more and ruffle your hair. 

"Too bad," he answers, leaning in close for a brief instant that you recognize as most likely being an outlet for the extra energy that accompanies his ADHD. "You're stuck with it 'cause I ain't telling you." he switches to a southern accent partway through the sentence and ends up giggling, which makes you, surprisingly enough, giggle along with him.

You talk for a bit longer, really just sort of random topics that leave you with no idea of how they were even brought up, but, far, far too soon, Brendon loosens his grip on you and pushes himself to standing, offering his hand to help you get up as well. 

"Well, it's been really nice to meet you, (Y/N), but I have to get going now," he says apologetically. You bit your lip for a second, willing yourself to not get emotional. This will probably be the best day of your life, and it's already ending too soon. You just need to keep it together for one more minute, okay? Just one more minute and then you can go back to being the loser girl that slices open her arm every day in the bathroom. 

"Yeah, it's been great," you tell him, and you're not lying. It's been the best day of your life. 

"See you around," he tells you, stepping backwards in preparation to turn away. Even though you know it's just empty words, they make you smile, just for a moment. 

"Yeah," you reply, forcing yourself to keep the smile up. "Bye." 

With a final wave, Brendon Urie turns and saunters out of the building, leaving you possibly just as bad as you were before he came- maybe even worse. 

 _Fuck Brendon Urie,_ you think.  _Just fuck him._


	2. The Poor Groom's Bride is a Whore and Other Occurences

"Fuck," you mutter, glancing down at the rapidly building red on your skin.  _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..._

 _Great job,_ you think to yourself.  _You cut too deep and now you're probably going to have to go get medical help. And once they find the other scars, they'll stick you into rehab. Great fucking job, (Y/N), just great fucking job._

There's a chance, you know, that maybe, if you're lucky, you can just bind it up and hope you won't lose too much blood and die in your sleep or something, but... you don't know. You don't  _really_ want to die. Well, you do, but not bad enough to actually take action. 

Or do you?

Like you said before, you don't know. Really, you don't really know anything at the moment. Everything's just sort of fuzzy and spacey and then it's moving very s l o w l y  and then it's...

Then it's not moving at all. 

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, it's to the sickening smell of blood in your nostrils and searing agony in your arm. You weakly put your good arm on the tiles and push yourself up, still too dizzy to really process what you're seeing correctly. 

You're lying in a puddle of blood, you realize, after a moment.

 _Your_ blood. 

Normally, this would be the time a normal human being would scramble up and try to clean the blood off them almost frantically, in a Lady Macbeth sort of way, even though they'd (probably) never murdered anyone. But for you... you're really just too tired to mind it right now. Your parents still don't seem to be home and you don't think you've actually been out for more than an hour or two, so, until they get back, you don't really have to do anything. Well, of course you'll have to clean it up eventually, but it'd still be kind of nice to just... lay there for a while. 

Is it morbid? Probably. 

Do you care? Not really. 

So you just sit there, in a pool of your drying blood, for a couple minutes as you try to remember how to do, you know, basic human functions such as breathing and blinking. But eventually, you seem to gain the strength to stand back up, and after that you sort of decide that, if you're standing, you might as well clean the mess up, so you do.

It takes a lot longer than you're used to, and a lot longer than you'd like, but you finally finish it up. The next few minutes are spent just staring at your (still bleeding) arm with disgust; you kinda don't want to treat it, but it could get infected, and, also, something that deep is easily detected when not bandaged, so it'd be best if you did so. 

Except... 

You examine it with a frown. 

Except it might need stitches. 

_Great. Just fucking great._

You're horrible with a needle and thread and you don't really want to look like some sort of badly stitched piece of leather when you're done, but from the looks of your arm, it's that or the hospital- and that's not really a competition. 

So you grab your parent's sewing kit, thread a needle, and get to work. 

 

* * *

 

You probably shouldn't be here. 

You're back at the abandoned old studio, this time with your earbuds plugged into your phone and in your ears (because you learned your lesson last time). It's been less than 24 hours since what you've decided to call The Near-Death Experience, so you're still so weak from blood loss that you can barely walk, but you just couldn't stay away.

You probably shouldn't be here. But then, when has that ever stopped you?

So you pick that magic playlist of yours and click shuffle-play, carefully cradling your arm as you do so because although it's not bleeding anymore, it still hurts a fuckton. 

When I Write Sins Not Tragedies comes onscreen, you smile a bit, remembering the events of a week before. That day had probably been the best day in your life, easily. You can still remember Brendon's smile, his laugh, his every fucking eyebrow twitch. It's been slowly driving you mad, because you know you're never going to see him again, much less have any sort of chance to become anything to him other than a sobbing, emotional, hysterical fan, but you can't let it go. You just can't let the best day of your life go like that. 

_Oh, well imagine,_

_As I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor..._

You smile slightly and join in without hesitation this time. 

 _"_ _And I can't help but to hear,_

_No I can't help but to hear an exchanging of words:_

_'What a beautiful wedding! What a beautiful wedding!'_

_Says a bridesmaid to a-_

_Oh, yes, what a shame, what a shame the poor groom's bride is a-"_

"-Whore!"

You spin around so quickly you could be the Flash. 

"Brendon?" 

The singer grins, leaving the doorway and starting towards you. "Guilty as charged." 

You suddenly realize you never pressed pause on the song and do so while ripping your earbuds out of your ears.  

"I didn't realize it was a crime to be you," you retort almost automatically, then mentally slap yourself.

Brendon gives you a devastating smirk and raises an eyebrow. "Oh, did you now?" 

You glare at him, although you have a feeling it wasn't very successful seeing as you were blushing beet red the entire time. "Shut up." 

He just laughs, loud and care-free, and sits down next to you. You can't help but wonder what it would be to be able to laugh like that, what kind of life he must live. "So, how are you doing today?" 

_Weak. Worthless. Pathetic. So fucking useless._

"Fine," you answer as believably as you can, which, okay, maybe isn't very because you're currently cradling a deep cut wound that made you literally faint less than a day ago, but sue you, you've had a hard couple of days, what with Brendon  _fucking_ Urie. 

Brendon sighs. 

"What?" you ask defensively. 

"I can tell you're not," he answers, keeping his voice quiet as if he remembered you don't like being yelled at. "You don't have to lie, you know." 

"I'm fine," you just say again. You can't let yourself open up to him; you  _can't._

"Don't lie to me," he says quietly, "Please? I want to help you but I don't know how." 

"I'm  _fine,"_ you reply, a bit sharper than you'd wanted to, but unlike you, Brendon doesn't flinch. "But even if I wasn't, why would you even want to help?" 

"Because," he replies gently, "You're worth more than you seem to think, and you deserve to realize that." 

You look away. It's hard to not believe when Brendon says something like that, but he just can't be right. He just  _can't_ be. 

You resist the urge to cradle your injured arm closer to you- because then he'll get suspicious and ask to see your arm and you can  _not_ let that happen- and shrug a shoulder. "Whatever," you tell him as dismissively as possible, not even caring that you're not exactly being polite. "I'm fine, okay? So drop it." 

Brendon's face falls and he opens his mouth to say something. After a second, he closes it again and just sighs. "Fine, then." 

For a moment, you think he's mad at you and are torn between feeling even worse because  _great job, you've screwed it up again,_ and getting mad because what the fuck else are you supposed to do- telling him the truth's just going to make it worse! But then you realize he just looks disappointed, and somehow that just hurts even more.

You wrack your brain, trying to think of a solution, but before you can, Brendon speaks up again. 

"What's your favorite color?" 

You look over at him, completely confused. "What?"

He rolls his eyes, playing with a loose thread on his jeans. "You're not going to tell me about school, or anything like that, so at least I can learn  _something_ about you. Or is your favorite color out of the question, too?" 

"No," you respond quickly, even though he didn't sound mad, just a little exasperated. "I was just... I wasn't expecting that, that's all." 

"So what's your favorite color?" he asks again. You laugh and tell him what it is, oddly touched that he cared enough to actually try to learn something as insignificant as that.

"What's yours?"

He hesitates, biting his lip, and you roll your eyes at him. "Come on, I answered it, you can answer it too." 

"It'd probably be..." he looks straight at your eyes for a fraction of a second before answering, "It'd probably be (Y/E/C)." your breath hitches without your permission. _It's just a coincidence,_ you tell yourself quickly. He just likes that color _._ He didn't magically change his favorite color based on your fucking  _eye color._

"That's, nice," you stammer, a bit awkwardly. "I like that color, too." Brendon gives you a smile and grazes your hand with his own as he shifts around, presumably to get comfortable. 

"What do you say we play 20 questions?" he proposes softly, once he's in position, not seeming to notice the look of barely concealed panic you give him. There's no way you're going to do that; who knows what questions he might ask? 

Once again, as if he's read your mind, he continues, "If you don't want to answer it, you don't have to, okay?" 

You nod, considering it for a moment. "You get to do it too, then," you tell him. He gives you a shrug, smiling a bit.

"I doubt I'll need it, but if that's the way you wanna do it, go ahead!" he offers you a grin. "You wanna go first?" 

"Uh... sure." you try to think of something that's not going to be lame but come up blank. "Um... what was your worst haircut?" 

Brendon giggles for a moment. "Oh, that's a hard one." he looks over at you. "Have you ever seen the pictures of me when Panic! was newly formed?"

"You mean the ones with your long hair?" 

He grimaces. "Yeah. I thought it looked cool. No idea why." he laughs. "What do you hate most about people?" 

You laugh, thinking. "Um, I don't know."

"Come on!" he pokes you in the shoulder unexpectedly; even more unexpectedly, you don't flinch, just laugh. 

"Okay, okay," you tell him, still smiling. "I guess... maybe when people pity you? Or when they act sympathetic and you can tell they don't mean it." you glance at Brendon and look away quickly. His expression is softer, somehow- not pitying, or sympathetic, just softer. "Uh," you think quickly, "If your house was burning, what's the first thing you'd save?"

"Easy," he responds, "My guitar. Who would you say is your hero?"

 _You,_ you think, but keep your mouth shut. There's no way you'd actually say that to his face. "Captain America. Do... you like rainbows?"

"Do I like rainbows?" he asks, incredulous but amused. "What sort of question is that?" 

Honestly, you don't really know, either, but you've asked it and you aren't going back on it now. "Just answer the question," you say, laughing.

"Yes, I do, I think they're pretty." he hesitates, leaning forward, his gaze running over you and stopping at your injured arm. You clutch it tighter against yourself, dreading the next question. "What happened to your arm?" 

At that, all thoughts of declining the question or lying through it flee your mind and you panic. "I-I'm sorry," you stammer, bolting up. "I need to go." 

"Wait, (Y/N)!" Brendon cries, scrambling up after you and trying to follow you.

But you just run, adrenaline giving you the extra energy you need, not even remembering to grab your earbuds and phone as you go. 

 

* * *

 

You run blindly down the hallway, flinging the door open and bolting out into the late afternoon sunlight. You pause for a second, listening to hear if Brendon is following you. When you don't hear anything, you sink down onto the ground, digging your nails into your hurt arm in order to ground yourself. You're kind of glad he didn't follow you; you'd have absolutely no idea what to say, especially not to what Brendon would want most likely (you pulling up your sleeve). But at the same time, you can't help but feel just a bit hurt that he didn't even seem to try. Maybe he picked up your pho-

Oh shit. Your phone. You left your phone in there. 

_Shit._

You can't go back in there, but you can't just leave your phone behind, either... 

This would be the time, you think with a sigh, that having a friend would be nice. You could tell them to go pick up your phone and earbuds for you, and _boom_ , problem solved. You wouldn't have to go back and chance seeing Brendon again and thus risk further humiliating yourself in front of him, and you'd get your phone back. 

But, alas, you're the unpopular, emo outcast of your school. You seriously doubt you could  _pay_ someone to go do that. 

So, here you are, sitting on the pavement with your knees to your chest, trying not to cry. You don't even have your music to comfort you now. The one thing that had always been there for you is gone, all because of Brendon  _freaking_ Urie. 

No. You're not going to blame him for this. This wasn't his fault. He didn't know what asking that question would entail. This is  _your_ fault. This is all your fault, and you have no way of fixing it. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Hey, (Y/N), wake up." a hand grazes your shoulder gently and you lift your head off where it had been resting on your knees, blinking rapidly to clear your vision of sleep. "Sorry it took so long to find you," Brendon tells you, moving as if to sit down next to you before stopping. You're not sure if it's because he's afraid you'll reject him or if he just doesn't want to sit next to you. "I wasn't sure which way you went and I had to get this." he waves your phone, earbuds and all, in front of your face and laughs as you make a grab for them. 

"Nuh-uh, not so fast."

You raise an eyebrow, confused. "What?" 

"I want something first." 

Your breath catches in your throat.  _No no no no no_ he's going to ask again, isn't he? He's going to find out, he's going to realize just how  _pathetic_ you are, he's going to-

"I want a hug."

-offer you a  _hug?_

"What?" you ask again, feeling like a goldfish or something from the most likely dumb expression on your face.

"A hug," Brendon repeats, this time looking more uncertain. "Unless... you, uh, you don't do hugs or something, then I'll just have to figure somethi-"

You stand up, brace yourself, and wrap an arm around him clumsily, not really sure how to do this whole hugging thing. You feel his chest vibrate in a laugh as his arms come around you tightly, putting you into a slightly awkward position as you still only have one arm around him. 

"Come on, hug me properly," he murmurs into your hair, loosening his grip enough for you to wrap the other arm around him. 

"Why did you want a hug?" you ask him after a second, leaning back and letting him go because you've heard any hug longer than a few seconds can get awkward. 

"Maybe I had a bad day," Brendon shrugs, tilting his head and smirking at you, "Maybe I like hugs. Who knows?" 

You roll your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. "Can I have my phone back now?" 

He gives you an exaggerated sigh and drops it in your hand theatrically. "I guess so." 

Once you've put it in your jacket pocket along with your earbuds, he sticks out a hand. You look at it, confused, because you're not on the ground anymore; why would you need his hand? 

"Don't keep me waiting," he tells you, wiggling his fingers. "It's getting late and from the looks of it, you have school tomorrow. We need to get you back home." 

"Yes,  _mom,"_ you mutter, making him laugh, and cautiously take his hand. They don't fit together perfectly by any means, and you make sure to keep your fingers together and not interlaced with his, but his hand is warm, and seeing as you've been sitting on cold concrete for hours, it's surprisingly comforting. 

"Where do you live?" he asks after a few seconds of walking. You look around, trying to gauge the best way to get back home and along with the best way to avoid the houses of the kids you go to school with. They've kind of got a habit of beating you up every time they see you go past and right now, you really don't want to have to deal with that- despite the fact that you're practically out of high-school, they still seem to think mashing someone's nose into a pulp is entertaining, and you can't exactly stop them. 

"Maybe a 10 minute walk away," you finally say. There's a shorter way that would probably take about 5 minutes if you walked fairly quickly, but that's too dangerous, especially with Brendon. He doesn't need to see what you go through every day. 

"Okey dokey, which way?" 

You point towards the right direction with your free hand and Brendon tugs you towards it with the enthusiasm of a child. "Come on, let's go!" 

"Brendon, slow down!" 

He turns back to you, a mock pout on his face. "Aw, come on, (Y/N), you have to have fun sometimes or else you'll get boring." 

"Running's not my idea of 'fun'," you retort, but when Brendon deepens his pout, you sigh and give in. "Fine, but not the entire way." 

He grins and takes off running, leaving you to pant as you try to keep up. Thankfully, after a minute or so, he stops running, slowing to a brisk walk while you try to catch your breath. 

"Someone's out of shape," he tells you with an easy, joking smile that you instantly do your hardest to not take in a bad way- as in not eat for days bad. Because, you know, basically anything Brendon says to you, you'd take to heart, so...

"Not in a bad way, of course," he finishes, somehow able to read your expression- or your mind. "You're fine the way you are." he scratches behind one ear before continuing. "Um, do we just stay on this street the entire way there?" 

You cast a look around. "No, we take a left up here." you point towards the turn, biting your lip. "At least, I think so." 

"You don't know the way back to your own house?" Brendon raises an eyebrow, looking somewhere between incredulous and amused.

You're not about to tell him you actually took a different route to avoid a few particular people from beating you up in front of Brendon, so you try to think up an answer. "I do, but I don't exactly have the best memory," is the excuse you settle for; thankfully, Brendon seems satisfied and just laughs. 

He does that a lot, you realize absently- laugh, that is. You're so unused to seeing people actually genuinely happy, especially near you, that it seems kind of strange. Normally, the only laugh you hear all week is the mocking one that comes right before a kick to the ribs, but Brendon's laughs aren't that kind at all. They're like the laughs you've heard on YouTube in interviews, but somehow even more real. They make you want to laugh with him, despite how terrible you're currently feeling. 

 _Fucking Brendon Urie,_ you think with a sigh and a lot less heat than you should've, seeing as you've only met him in person twice and he's already making you laugh way more than you've probably ever laughed in your entire life. 

"You okay?" 

Your head snaps up to look at Brendon. "Yeah, why?" 

"You looked a bit lost in thought," he shrugs. "We've been walking down this street for a while now, are we almost to your house?" 

You bite your lip, look around, and nod. "Yeah, I think we're about 5 houses awa-" 

"Hey, (Y/N)," a cruel, familiar voice sounds over to your left. 

 _Shit._ You'd literally fucking changed your route just to avoid _him_ , and now he was there anyway? 

You wrench your hand out of a surprised Brendon's grasp and level a glare towards your ex-boyfriend turned bully. "Not now, Kyle," you hiss at him. Why couldn't he just have fucking waited until after Brendon had left? Why did he have to screw up your one good day like, ever? 

"No, I think now's actually a great time," he says, that sadistic smirk you've grown accustomed to over the months aimed towards you. "You see,  _someone_ managed to avoid me today, and you know what happens when people avoid me?" he moves closer to you, completely ignoring Brendon and digging his nails into your shoulder abruptly, making you flinch. 

"Let go of me," you say quietly after a tense moment. "You can do whatever you want tomorrow. Just let go of me." 

"No," he smirks, "I think I'll just do it right now, in front of your new boyfriend." 

"He's  _not_ my boyfriend." You hiss the reply, partially out of anger and partially because now he's digging his nails into both of your shoulders. 

"So what is he, then? A pity fuck?" he grins, leaning in close enough you can feel his breath against your face. "I mean, that's all you're really good for, anyw-" he lurches sideways with a gasp and you stare at him clutching his chest in confusion.

"Don't say that again." Brendon is suddenly next to you and he doesn't look happy. You realize, a bit faintly, that Brendon must've kicked him in the stomach, and hard, to make Kyle wheeze that badly. 

"Or what?" your ex pants out, still clutching his stomach. 

"Or I have bodyguards and I'm not afraid to put them to use on you," Brendon retorts coolly. He turns to you, offering his hand, but more cautiously this time as if he's afraid he'll scare you away. "Come on," he tells you, voice softening.

For once in your life, you don't hesitate. 

And okay, if your fingers interlock sometime between there and the minute it takes to get to your home, well, no one needs to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up some (possible) confusion, in this story, Brendon's 26. This fic takes place right after the release of Too Weird To Live, Too Rare To Die! and before the release of Hallelujah.


	3. A Little Less Fucked Up Angles, A Little More Help Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though I know I said there was self-harm and such from the very first chapter, I feel kind of obligated to say that this chapter REALLY has a lot of that kind of stuff, and I dunno, I just want you guys to be safe. :)

Sometimes you really wish Brendon had never stepped in that night.

Sometimes? More like every day as you're beaten to a bloody pulp that you try not to find as strangely releasing as you do. Just because you like slicing your arm open and have, on more than one occasion, starved yourself for punishment doesn't mean that you should find your ex's and his friend's fists almost...  _nice._

Well, of course, not nice in the typical sense of the word.  _Nice_ as in it gives almost the same feeling of release you get when you cut. Or burn, which you'd tried once then stopped because burning's a lot harder to hide despite how much better it is in terms of release, at least for you. 

Apparently, Kyle had taken it as a personal insult when Brendon had kicked him in the stomach and told him to never call you what he'd called you that night (something along the lines of worthless? You're not sure; it all just blends together eventually) again or he'd set his bodyguards on Kyle.

Why do you think that? 

You don't _think_  anything.You  _know._ Because, if your life had been living hell before, now it's... it's a whole different level of it. 

Sometimes you really wish Brendon had never stepped in that night.

Sometimes? More like always. Because he made you believe that maybe there was someone out there that cared, even a little bit- maybe not Brendon, specifically, but somebody. 

And then he'd left. He hadn't even asked for your number (not that you expected him to; he's a celebrity, after all, and can do so much better than you), or even your last name. 

He'd just left, and a week later, you're walking home, hunched over with a black eye and just about every part of your body hurting. You've been in enough pain that, for the last few days, you haven't even had the strength to self-harm- or the will to, either, because even though this pain wasn't inflicted by yourself, it's pain, and pain is release. 

You wish you'd never met Brendon, never met him because, when you did, he showed you just how amazing he was, and then he just left you in the dust with nothing, not even a 'see you soon'. 

_Fucking Brendon Urie._

"Fuck you, Brendon Urie," you mutter to no one in particular. It feels good to at least get that out of your system. 

Of course, that's just the exact moment the one person you hadn't expected to see shows up.

"Fuck me? That's not very nice," a familiar voice chides right next to your ear. 

Startled and jumpy because the only time someone's been that close to you for the past week- month- year- it's been to hurt you, you lash out instinctively, hitting him squarely in the stomach with your foot. Brendon lets out a groan and grabs his stomach, gasping. 

"What did I do?" he chokes out. 

"Sorry," you say quickly. "Nothing... I-I didn't mean to, it just sort of... happened." 

He smiles a pained grin at you and stands up slowly, still holding his stomach but not wheezing anymore. 

And then, for the first time, he seems to see just how bad you look, and freezes.

"What the  _hell,_ (Y/N)?" he asks and reaches out to touch the corner of your black eye gently. You automatically flinch away and instantly regret it as you see Brendon's expression fall. 

"It's fine," you say automatically. You're not going to tell Brendon what he set off with Kyle, especially when you doubt he ever even intended to see you again. You don't want to guilt him into doing anything. "I had a bad day with dodgeball. Which is more like hitball than dodgeball, really." 

Brendon's jaw clenches and you try not to flinch again. "Right. Because a ball can do  _that-"_ he points towards the cuts and bruises all over your face- "And  _that."_ he motions towards where you're holding your ribs tightly.

"Yes." 

"(Y/N)," and now Brendon just looks pained, the little anger he had in him draining out. He reaches a hand out slowly towards your face and this time you stay still despite how your pulse quickens because you've never had someone  _want_ to touch you this gently. 

"Why can't you just tell me the truth?" 

"Why do you  _want_ to know the truth?" you reply quietly but keep frozen as his hand makes contact with your skin. "You've only ever even  _seen_ me _three times,_ Brendon."

"Just because I don't know you very well doesn't mean I'm the kind of douchebag that doesn't care when I see someone hurting," he fires back, withdrawing his hand from your face. 

"How do I know you're not lying?" you ask quietly. Although you're definitely the last person to ever say you don't like Brendon, there's this part of you that insists on seeing the worst in everyone and it's trying to do that now with him, whispering  _he doesn't care, he's just doing it for publicity_ and  _stupid, stupid girl, how could you ever think he means it?_

"You don't," Brendon replied. "Not right now. But I can prove it to you." 

You laugh bitterly. The last time someone said that to you, it was Kyle. And look how that turned out. "Sure," you mutter. "Sure you will." 

"Believe me," Brendon says. "When I say I'll prove something, I will. I'll prove that I care, and maybe then you'll finally let me in." 

"Why do you want to know so badly?" you practically whisper. "I'm not worth it, Brendon."

 _"Don't say that,_ " Brendon almost hisses, and  _when the hell did he get so close?_ "Everyone's worth it, (Y/N), and that means you are, too." 

You back up a little, unnerved by how close he's gotten. You're tempted to say  _you don't even know me,_ but that'd just send you spiraling back around in an endless circle of conversation and you don't want that.

"Whatever you say."

He smiles then, a brilliant flash of teeth that makes you smile back at him. "So, now that that's done, what do you wanna do?"

You stare at him blankly, thrown off both his sudden mood change. "What do I wanna...you?"

"We could watch a movie, walk around town..."

"But someone could recognize you, you could be like mobbed or something," you say, brow furrowed. "Don't you ever want a break from your fans?" you look down. _Your fans, like me_ runs through your head. 

Brendon shrugs. "I dunno, I heard they were playing a really cool movie and I kinda want to see it." he looks over at you and grins, a bit shyly. "I prefer going to the theater with someone else, so..." he looks over at you hopefully and you stop breathing for a second.  _What?_ He's joking. He has to be joking.

"You could... come with me?"

"Are you sure?"

Brendon nods, still smiling a bit. "Yeah. I mean, unless you have like... homework or something." 

You kinda do, but you're not about to pass this chance up. You're probably never going to get an opportunity like this again. "No, I'm free." 

He grins and grabs your hand. "Let's go!"

 

* * *

 

"So..." Brendon shifts a bit, looking almost shy. "How did you like it?" 

"It was good." You're not lying; you actually enjoyed it, and not just because Brendon freaking Urie was sitting next to you. 

"Yeah?"

You smile. "Yeah." 

Surprisingly, there weren't any fans at the theater, or if there were, they kept quiet. You and Brendon had been able to sit in peace among the other people, chowing down on popcorn and generally just having fun. Really, it had to have been the best day of your life.

You seem to be saying that a lot, lately. Each time you see Brendon is better than the last, despite the uncomfortable prickly feeling you get whenever he asks you about something he really,  _really_ doesn't need to know about. 

"What did you think?" you ask after a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence.

"About the movie?"

You roll your eyes. "No, about rainbows.  _Yes,_ about the movie." 

He laughs. "It was great. Both the movie and..." he gives you a dazzling smile, "The company. I don't think I've ever heard such sarcastic commentary in my life." 

You snort. "What can I say? Sarcasm is my second language." 

"You've got that right," he mutters, then flashes you a grin. You smile right back at him, for once without any restraint. For the first time, maybe, in your entire life, things don't look so bad. Maybe you can actually get all your shit together for once. 

 

* * *

 

Of course, your thoughts take an entirely different route that night, as you sit huddled in bed, shivering, because it's cold, dammit, your house is always cold regardless of the temperature outside, and you're more tired and in pain than you've been since... like, ever. 

 _You're worthless,_ you think darkly, and if you hadn't been unable to even move, you'd probably be cutting right now.  _He doesn't care about you, you idiot. He_ can't  _care about you._

It doesn't matter that he'd said he'd see you again soon. It doesn't matter that this was, hands down, the best day of your life.

The only thing your  _stupid_ brain cares about is that he's  _not here_ right now. And even though you're fairly certain Brendon  _wasn't_ lying when he said he thought you were worth caring about, your  _stupid_ brain isn't buying it. Because that's just what your brain does. It twists everything until it's warped beyond recognition and vomits it back up at you, leaving only the bare truth. Brendon's not here. 

And you know that you're selfish. You shouldn't want to have a fucking celebrity with you, 24/7, just to comfort you and tell you you're worth it. 

Sure, you want it. But it's _selfish_. _You're_  selfish _._

But you can't help it. You want it. You want it so badly and you can't stop wanting it, even though your brain laughs and tells you the only reason he's been doing all this is because he pities you, that he doesn't really care, he  _can't_ care, because who could care about you?

You laugh, low and bitter.

No one.

No one could care about you.

Especially not Brendon. 

 

* * *

 

Laughter.

Pain.

Blood spurts from your nose- you can only hope he didn't break it. 

More laughter.

You hear a sickening crunch and bite your tongue, hard. From the sound, and the pain it accompanied, he probably broke a rib.

 _Damn it._  

How the hell are you going to be able to walk with a fucking broken rib?

A shoe collides with your stomach and you fall to the floor, clutching your stomach and gasping for breath. You have no idea what set this off; even your ex is rarely this violent. He normally settles for a couple kicks, enough to bruise and cut but never break or maim. 

Or scar. 

A foot hits you, again and again, and for a brief moment you can't help but wonder _what if he wants me dead?_ Then you shove the thought away because he wouldn't just _kill_ you for no reason. Or for a reason, either. Kyle's not a murderer.

You hope.

But the pain doesn't stop; if anything, it increases until the world begins to fade out around you.

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, you're huddled in a ball on the pavement outside your house. It's exactly the same spot you were in when Kyle attacked you, so you presume you haven't moved since the time you fell unconscious. You try to sit up, then instantly grimace as your (probably) broken rib decides to make its presence known right at that moment.

Right. You guess you're not going to be moving any time soon.

"(Y/N)!"

_Shit._

Brendon.

"What the _hell_ happened to you?" you don't answer, not wanting to tell the truth but also knowing you're not going to get away with it this time. "And don't you _dare_ lie to me this time. Don't you  _fucking dare."_

"I'm fine," you try one last time, even though you know it's not going to work- how could it, when you're huddled on the ground, bruised and bloody and  _broken,_ irrevocably  _broken_ even though the bruises and cuts are only superficial. 

Not like you weren't broken before, you suppose. Now, it's just that you've finally started to resemble on the outside what you feel on the inside. 

"(Y/N),  _please,"_ Brendon says quietly. Your muddled brain vaguely registers a pleading note in his tone, which doesn't make sense because why would Brendon be begging to know what happened to you? Why would he care that much, anyway? 

"We've been through that already, (Y/N)," Brendon says, and you realize you must've said the last part out loud. "Please. I need to know."

"Why?" you ask, looking away.

Brendon sucks in an incredulous breath.  _"Why?"_ he practically sputters.  _"Why?_ Why do I care? Why do I want to help you? You're destroying yourself, (Y/N)! You're destroying yourself and you won't fucking let me help, and you ask me  _why?"_

You try not to laugh. He thinks that not wanting to tell him about a couple bruises and a handful of cuts is destroying yourself? Please. You're the expert in self-destruction. You've done things to yourself that'd make Brendon leave within seconds. That he's this worked up about something as  _minuscule_ as this just proves how you can _never_ tell him. 

"Don't be so loud," you finally answer. "Shouting never helps." 

Brendon's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow.

For a second, you're worried he's going to get even more furious, maybe even start hitting you, too, so you try to move away from him. It doesn't work, of course, because if it hurts to fucking  _breathe,_ then it's going to hurt to move, but Brendon seems to realize what you're trying to do- and why- and his expression softens.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I just... I'm worried about you, I'm  _so_ worried about you, and you never tell me anything..." he brushes his hand along your jawline gently, carefully avoiding the bruises that adorn your face as he does so. 

There's a moment of silence, then Brendon asks again. "What happened?" 

You're tired. You're really, fucking tired, and you're bruised and cut and you think a rib's broken. So sue you, you're human, you feel pain. So when you answer him, it's finally,  _blessedly_ (or cursedly, depending on your viewpoint) the truth. 

Well. A version of it, anyway.

"Bullies," you mutter. You try to make it sound casual, normal, like this shit happens everyday, and, well, it does. But Brendon, Brendon _of course_ just can't let that go. 

"I'm gonna need more than that," he answers, rolling his eyes a bit. His voice is quiet, reassuring and you just want him to hold you as you fall asleep but you know that's never going to happen, and not just because he's Brendon Urie. 

"School bullies," you say next.

"That beat you up outside your house?" 

"School  _and_ neighborhood bullies," you concede with a bitter laugh that makes you wince from pain. 

"I'm guessing it's a normal thing," he says quietly. It's not a question; he knows. But you answer it anyway.

"Yeah. Daily."

"But it's worse today," Brendon says, tilting his head in question. "Why? What did you do?"

"Exist, apparently," you mutter darkly. 

There's a pause, and then you see a bicep literally right in front of your face and realize he's reaching towards you in order to hug you, but doing it slowly so he doesn't startle you. 

It's oddly sweet and you can't help but smile and nod as if giving permission. The next moment, you're in his arms, held tightly but gently because somehow Brendon picked up on your rib issue- not that hard because you were practically wheezing but  _still-_ and to be honest, you could probably fall asleep right then and there. So what? You're tired, you had the shit beaten out of you, and there's an attractive guy that you like hugging you. 

"Hey, hey," he says softly, "It's going to be alright."

You don't believe him, of course, because when have things ever been alright? But his arms are warm, and you're cold; they're safe, and you're scared. So within seconds, you're asleep. 

 

* * *

 

When you wake up, you're in your bed, feeling strangely refreshed despite the fact that your ribs are still throbbing faintly and you can barely see out of one of your eyes. 

Brendon is nowhere to be seen.

You curse yourself for expecting him to be there. He literally came to see you; he demanded to know what was wrong, and he held you until you fell asleep. You didn't deserve any of those things, and yet you wanted him to be there when you woke up? 

_Pathetic. That's what you are._

You get up and look down, eyes widening a bit when you see that your chest is wrapped neatly in bandages- over your clothes, thank God, if Brendon had taken them off and seen your scars you don't know what you'd've done. 

You step into the bathroom and look into the mirror, trying to see just how much damage Kyle did to your body. 

You make a face, a fresh wave of self-loathing washing over you. You look  _disgusting,_ pathetic and you just want to...

What do you want to do? You don't even know anymore.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a small, shiny thing and you smile.

Yes. That's what you want to do. 

So you take it, and slip off your pants because your arm is becoming too risky now, what if Brendon keeps his promise and sticks around? You can't let him see. 

You hold the razor right above the skin of your right thigh and breathe deeply, then press it into your flesh and slice. 

_One._

You've only developed the counting system recently; before then, it was just cut until you felt better. Sort of a 'cut first, count later' kind of thing really.

_Two._

Just look at you. Still the same disgusting bitch you were years before. Brendon should've left you long, long ago. 

In fact, that's probably what he did; bandaged you up and left you for good.

_Three._

You kinda applaud him, though, you really do. He's done the one thing you've always wanted to do- get the fuck away from yourself. Because anyone as fucked up as you doesn't even deserve a fucking  _glance_ from someone like him.

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

Your thigh's covered in blood now, but you can't bring yourself to care. You just want more. Because sometimes, you need to bleed to know that you're alive, that this isn't  _actually Hell._ Although you wouldn't be surprised if you could bleed in Hell, too. 

_Seven._

The pain's starting to kick in now, and you sigh, almost in relief. You haven't done this for far too long. It's... you've missed this. 

You don't want to stop. Ever.

_Eight._

_Nine._

For an instant, the  _briefest_ instant, you wonder if Brendon would care. If he'd care that you're doing what he was so worried about yesterday- destroying yourself- right now. Then you laugh.

_Idiot. Of course he doesn't. When are you going to get it into your head that he doesn't care?_

_Ten._

_Eleven._

But then you can't do anymore.You've spent far too long in the bathroom already and too much many cuts makes for too much blood, and too much blood makes it hard to clean up. 

So you grit your teeth and will yourself to put away the razor, put a paper towel on your thigh in order to stop the bleeding, pull your pants back up and leave the room. 

You enter your room with a considerably lighter head- that's what cutting does for you, at least for a few minutes; it sends the thoughts away for a short period of time and  _fuck,_ that's why it's so addicting, because the only time you ever feel okay, feel  _human,_ is when you're cutting. 

But then you spot something on your nightstand and forget all about that. You cross your room in several quick strides, snatch the note up, and start reading. 

 

_Hey (Y/N)!_

_It's Brendon. You're probably wondering why the fuck you woke up in your bed with bandages wrapped around your ribs- don't worry, I didn't undress you, just put them around your clothes. I_ can  _be a gentleman sometimes, okay?_

_Anyways. You fell asleep outside last night, so I carried you in and bandaged you up. I hope you're feeling better today! ;)_

_Sorry, by the way, that I wasn't there when you woke up. This thing with my band came up and I had to go. But trust me, I wouldn't have left otherwise. Oh, by the way, I'm enclosing my phone number below. I want you to call me as soon as you finish reading this note, okay? If I'm busy, I promise I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Cross my heart._

_Anyways, got to go, Dallon's going to kill me if I stay any longer._

_Feel better ;)_

_Brendon Urie_

 

You stare at the number written on the back of the note almost blankly. Did you read that right? Did  _Brendon Urie_ want you to  _call him?_

With shaking hands, you grab your phone and type his number out painstakingly slowly, afraid you'll type it wrong and end up with some weird, perverted pedophile by accident if you do so. 

You're not really expecting him to answer, seeing as how he said he might not because he could be busy, but, surprisingly enough, he does- on the first ring.

"Is this (Y/N)?" he asks cautiously, sounding tired but hopeful. You nod, then roll your eyes because how the fuck would he be able to tell you were nodding?

"Yeah, it's me." 

"Great! How are you feeling?"

You hesitate for a second. A second too long.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just..."

"(Y/N)," Brendon sighs, "I thought we were over with this. Don't lie to me anymore, please."

Your heart throbs painfully, because he actually sounds hurt and all you've ever done to him is lie. 

"My ribs hurt, I guess," you say, and even though that wasn't even the real problem it's fucking  _hard_ to say. You suppose that accurately shows just how screwed up you are. 

"Are they better than yesterday?" he sounds so concerned; you can't help but think it's adorable. 

"Yeah, they're better. Thanks for, um, bandaging me up, by the way," you reply, wanting to hit yourself because  _awkward._ But Brendon just giggles, breaking the awkwardness within seconds.

"Welcome. I would've taken your shirt off, but I didn't think you'd be too happy with me if I did." 

You silently thank God Brendon had decided to preserve your modesty. If he hadn't... well, you wouldn't even have a Brendon anymore. Not that you have one now. But he wouldn't be talking to you right now if he'd seen, that's all. 

"You got that right," you snark. "I would have called off our entire friendship immediately." 

You freeze.  _Shit._ He's never even called you his friend; now you're calling your _nonexistent_ relationship a _friendship?_ Are you fucking _stupid?_  

"Yikes," Brendon replies, much to your surprise and without missing a beat. "That's harsh, (Y/N), I don't want to live without your friendship."

And even though you know he's joking, that he probably doesn't mean a single thing, you can't help but smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this fic so far, please kudos and comment! I get super bad writer's block and I'm known for never finishing my fics (sorry for those people who might have liked my previous ones; I might still finish them but I'm not sure) so any feedback is really great and actually helps me actually try to fight my writer's block as well as my laziness and get you another chapter.


	4. The World Is Ugly (But You're Beautiful To Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So, I'd just like to say this chapter is... intense, I guess. Very intense. It's probably one of the most intense things I've written (I blame you, Light Behind Your Eyes) so be warned. There's what could be taken as an eating disorder in it even though it's not technically one, so again, if that triggers you I don't suggest you read this. Oh, and there's a whole lot of mentions of suicide, and the usual warnings for self-harm and the like. Yeah, it's quite a party.

Several weeks go by; you and Brendon grow close.

Well. Clos _er_. You never really open up to him; anything much beyond your favorite movie and you clamp up, no matter how much you might actually _want_ to tell him. It's like you have this filter that siphons out even the smallest bit of yourself from your words and it frustrates you because  _dammit,_ you might not want to tell him about the cutting, but at least you can tell him your favorite fucking  _song._

But _no,_ it's like you're so afraid he's going to leave you can't risk even the slightest trace of your true self showing up. 

So here you are, sitting on your bed at 7 in the morning with your knees pulled up to your chest and your eyes squeezed shut. For a second, you're about to get up and go to the bathroom- you haven't seen blood for almost a full day now, the longest you've ever gone for  _months_ (you blame Brendon; really, you do) but then you hear a soft rap against the window of your first floor room and a voice starts singing. 

"Seven a.m., the usual morning lineup, start on the chores and sweep till the floor's all clean!" 

You smile a little and step towards your window, opening the curtain and raising an eyebrow at Brendon. "Tangled, really?" 

"Would you have preferred Frozen?" 

You make a face. "God, no. Anything but that." 

He laughs and taps on the pane of glass separating you. "Are your parents asleep?" 

"Yeah."

"Great. Let's get the weed, then!" He switches to a southern accent and you laugh. 

"Brendon!" 

He grins, trying to stifle another laugh and not completely succeeding. "Just offering a fuckin' suggestion," he mutters, still in the southern accent. 

"A fuckin'," You try to imitate his voice and fail miserably, "Bad one." 

He snorts, then sobers and motions towards your door. "You going to let me in or not?"

"Pushy, pushy," you mutter, rolling your eyes at him and turning to let him in.

"You love it," he tells you before you're out of earshot and you turn back to him and stick out your tongue.

"You wish." 

He puts a hand over his heart, looking wounded. "Rude." 

"Just go to the stupid door already," you retort. "I can barely hear you out there." 

He rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath but disappears. A second later you hear a soft knock and half-run to the door. He steps in the moment you open it, invading your personal space in a way he seems to do way too often, and you step back instinctively, only then noticing the way his jaw sets and his shoulders fall when you do so.

So, desperate to at least get him back to normal, you think quickly. "Haven't you ever heard of closing a goddamn door?" 

"No," he retorts, closing it with a soft thud. "But, you know, it's much better to face these kind of things with-"

"-A sense of poise and rationality," you finish, offering him a grin that he returns readily, before you turn around and head off to your room. "Come on," you tell him, in case he didn't follow you because you're too lazy to look over your shoulder and actually check. 

By the time you get in your room, you can sense Brendon's presence at your back so you don't hesitate, just flop down on your bed and watch Brendon step into your room for the first time. You can see his gaze taking in the entirety of your room and bite your lip, hoping he doesn't see anything like a spare razor you forgot to pick up or some other fragment of your life, but then he looks at you and smirks, raising an eyebrow and  _shit,_ you shouldn't find it that attractive. You've been sex-starved; that's the only reason you're beet red right now. Really. 

"Inviting me into your bedroom, huh?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow. "Not very subtle." 

"Oh my  _God,_ Brendon," you sputter, horribly embarrassed even though it's not the reason you did it. "This room is the furthest one away from my parent's. It makes sense."

He sighs, sticking out his bottom lip but still smiling. "And here I had gotten my hopes up." 

You roll your eyes at him, knowing by now that he never actually means anything like that. "Uh huh. Sure you did." 

He flops down on the bed with a dramatic sigh, rolling over to face you and propping his chin up with his hands. "How's school?" he asks easily, but there's this pinched note to it.

You furrow your brow, confused; he just asked you a couple days ago how the bullying was (worse than ever but you haven't exactly told him that, and as they've learned to keep the marks mostly off your face Brendon's none the wiser), why would he need to ask you again?

"You just asked me on Wednesday, Brendon," you tell him, unable to keep the question out of your tone.

He just gives you a look and you sigh. "It's the same, Brendon, don't..." you stiffen, suddenly, looking at Brendon again and _no, oh no_. You've been blind. He'd never normally come here this early, he'd only do it if he had something special to do. And he'd never ask you how school is twice in one week unless... unless he wanted to make sure you were okay before he left.

"Brendon." He doesn't meet your eyes. "You're leaving, aren't you." It's not a question, it's a statement, and both of you know that. 

"Yes," he says, looking back up at you. "Not for good, obviously, but we have a tour to go on." 

You look down, clenching your jaw. 

"Hey, don't worry. I'm coming back, okay?"

You keep your expression carefully neutral, knowing if you do so he won't be able to read through it. "Yeah, okay." 

 

* * *

 

 

It was not  _okay._

But Brendon's oblivious like he is to almost everything else about you- or at least he pretends to be. You're not actually sure if he is or not.

The two of you spend the rest of the day together, walking around town, going to get ice cream, trying out tennis and failing miserably. 

Well.  _Together_ is a relative term. Sure, you're there with him physically, laughing at his (sometimes absolutely terrible) jokes, making sarcastic quips, rolling your eyes whenever Brendon says something inappropriate, but mentally? Mentally, you're hardly there at all.

But Brendon doesn't notice. 

He doesn't notice a lot of things- the sadness even you can see in your eyes when you look into a mirror, the scars that you no longer create on your arms but on your hips and thighs instead, the way you don't eat as much as you used to. Not that you want him to, of course. 

Or do you? You don't even know anymore. A part of you wants to scream, cry out to him for help because  _fuck,_ you need it, even you can see it. Another part laughs, mocking you and muttering how you're  _perfectly fine, you idiot, you don't need help, and he'd never give it to you even if you did because who'd help someone as broken as you?_

You know the answer.

_No one._

Brendon doesn't even know how broken you are and he's leaving anyway. It doesn't matter that he said he's only going to be gone for a month- 31 days, he'd told you with an unreadable expression in his eyes- you  _know_ he's going to leave. Just like your best friend had, just like the gentle, loving side of your former boyfriend had, just like your fucking _sanity_ had. He's going to leave, and he's not going to come back. So how can you act like everything's normal? 

But Brendon doesn't notice. He pulls you all around the town, more hyper than you've ever seen him and you can't help but think maybe the reason he seems so happy is because he'll be leaving you soon. It makes sense, after all. But you keep quiet about that, faking your smiles like you always do, answering his occasional 'how are you doing?' with a grin and an 'I'm great' because you've learned he can see through your I'm fine's (but he can't see through your I'm great's). 

And at the end of the day, when he gives you a sadder version of his brilliant smile and tells you goodbye, not offering you a hug because he stopped trying to touch you a couple weeks ago after you flinched for the umpteenth time, you just smile back and wave, pretending not to notice your heart sinking in your chest and instead forcing yourself to be happy, not selfish because not many people can say they spent a month with their idol, watching movies and eating ice cream and surfing tumblr together and here you are wishing you could've had longer. 

You're selfish, you know that. You didn't deserve one day and you got more than 30. But you still want more, you always want more because there's this hole inside you and Brendon helped fill it, even if it was only a little bit. 

 

* * *

 

 

You take to writing after he leaves. Sure, writing in a diary is weird, antiquated and overly girly, but it helps, it really does. And it's easier to hide than the scars that are becoming thicker, longer and deeper with every day. It's easier to hide than the blood that you sometimes don't even bother cleaning off your skin and instead let stick to your clothes. It's easier to hide than the way your ribs begin to stick out of your clothes that you begin to layer- you're not starving yourself, you just don't care anymore. It's easier to hide than the bruises that have somehow begun to find their way back to your face, painting your skin in pale swathes of green, blue and purple. 

And it's easier to hide than the pills you're beginning to hoard up, one by one, waiting for the day when you're going to do it.

 

* * *

 

 

A week goes by. Brendon starts periscoping; you watch them all.

He's happy, you realize; not like you'd expected him to be  _sad_ when he'd left, but, you don't know, you kind of wish he was. You kind of wish he was at least a little bit sad, that you'd actually meant _something_ to him. 

Your brain scoffs at you.  _Meant something to him? Please. You knew him for a month, you couldn't even tell him anything deeper than your favorite animal, and you think you_ meant  _something to him?_

He makes vines, too, silly things about coffee and that one weird one where he tried to sing Hurricane drunk- he actually sang it pretty well, considering. And all the while, you watch them with a sad smile on your face and ever deepening gashes on your body- you still don't touch your arms, which doesn't make sense because if he's not coming back, then why bother? But you stick to your hips and thighs, despite what logic would say. 

The day he does a periscope and someone asks him if he has any regrets (he answers with a laugh and a 'Of course, who the fuck doesn't have any? But I don't have any recent ones, no' and you feel your heart shatter because he doesn't even  _regret_ leaving you) is the day you make your first steps towards death. 

 

* * *

 

 

Three weeks in, and you're fairly certain you're not going to live to see the fourth. You don't really want to, either. 

And you know it's sad, that you're one of those whiny fangirls that can't live without your  _precious Brendon_ and all that shit, but he was the only good thing you had and it got taken away. That saying that says something about how you never know what you have until it gets taken away should be written on the entire world because it's so fucking  _true._

 

A notification lights up on your phone that Brendon's scoping again and you unlock it, plug your earbuds in, tap hide comments, and listen. 

"Hey guys," he tells the camera, running a hand through his hair as he presumably watches the comments. "How am I doing? I'm great, thanks for asking. I'm just about to leave for a concert in about 15 but I thought I'd just chill with you guys for a bit." 

You smile at him, aware he can't see you and almost grateful because you looked into the mirror for the first time in a week and you know you look horrible. 

"How's the weather?" he laughs. "You guys certainly think up real interesting questions, don't you? It's not bad, a little bit hotter than I'd like. But it's not humid, so that's good." he's silent for a second, searching the comments again, before he continues. "Yeah, make sure you guys bring water or something with you. The AC in the building isn't that good and we all get so hyped we could get hurt if we're not careful."

He's quiet again for a long moment, tapping his fingers again the table he's sitting at. "It's your birthday today? Happy birthday! Are you coming to my show? That'd be a good birthday present." You roll your eyes at him and he laughs as if he can actually see you. 

He continues for a couple more minutes, answering people's questions (they started singing, does he have any advice, what's his favorite video game, does he like this new movie that just came out) and you hesitate, finger hovering over the comment button. You want to ask him  _something,_ even if he won't see it, but you can't think of anything.

Finally, though, you settle for his favorite candy (he told you what it was weeks ago but you want to see if it's changed).

Before you can finish typing it out, someone else's question catches Brendon's attention. You can see him stiffen, just a little, and his hands that had been tapping a tune silently out on the table go still. "What's that?" he asks, tone light but not as light as it was seconds before. "Do I have anyone I like?" Your breath catches against your will and for a second you wish it could be you. 

Then you hit yourself.  _Idiot._

"Yeah, I think so, actually," he tells you all with a half-smile on his face. You bite your lip, wishing you could feel happy for him but you  _can't,_ you just can't because, okay, you can admit it, you liked him a lot, to the point where it had gone past your fangirl obsession and to something deeper. "She's nice, I think you guys would like her-"

You exit out of the program so fast you don't even hear the rest of his sentence. 

_(I'm actually going to see her again when the tour's finished)_

 

* * *

 

Week five, day 29 without Brendon. It's two days before Brendon said he was going to come back and you're basically at rock bottom. 

You know he's not coming back; there's no way he would want to, so why bother thinking about it?

Except you do, you think about it every day, enough to drive you mad. You wish you didn't, wish you could just drill into your brain that  _he's not coming back, okay? He has someone he met on tour, he doesn't want you._

Your parents got concerned a couple days ago when they saw how much weight you've lost, so you force down three meals a day, despite how you could care less about it. You gain a couple pounds back, enough to make you look normal- at least enough that someone would only notice you've lost weight if they looked closely.

Or if they haven't seen you for a month.

Not that there's anyone other than Brendon who fits that application. And since he's not here, well...

 

* * *

 

 

Week five, day 30 without Brendon. The day before he'd said he would come back. 

You can't exactly deny the tiny tendril of hope you have that maybe, maybe he wasn't lying, maybe he'll come back, but you do your best to ignore it. It's not true, after all. 

You force down breakfast, make a couple cuts, write a few sentences in your diary, force down lunch, look at your rapidly growing pile of pills, make another few cuts... It's an endless circle of self-destruction, worse than the one before Brendon came, and this time you  _know_ you're not going to get out. 

You stare at the blood running down your leg and onto the bathroom tiles, thoughts miles away from the blood and pain. Brendon didn't make you better, you realize with a sigh. Brendon delayed your destruction for a short period of time and then left you to fracture and break without even a hug. 

And, yeah, you realize that's your fault for flinching whenever he tried to touch you- everything's your fault, isn't it? But  _still._ He could've _tried._  And yeah, you realize that's unfair to him because he's not perfect, he's not a mind-reader despite those few creepy instances he seemed to read through your I'm fine's (he didn't see through your yeah, I'm good, thank's though, so you realized he can't actually) and he's hardly going to realize you want to be hugged.

Or want to do so, once he figures it out. 

 

* * *

 

 

Week five, day 31 without Brendon. 

You spend the morning just staring blankly at the wall, not even bothering to get up and get dressed because what's the point? You decided you're going to end it tomorrow; there's really no point in anything anymore. 

You're not trying to be melodramatic or anything; there really is just no point in anything. Not even living. 

But, you know, your last day on earth, you might as well enjoy yourself. It's a Sunday, your parents don't have anything for you to do, so you might as well go do  _something._ Get ice-cream, go to that old studio, whatever. 

So you forcibly eject yourself out of your bed and put on some skinny jeans- that you can, surprisingly enough, put on without too much trouble now; you're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing- and a Panic! At The Disco band t-shirt. You look into the mirror and make a face- you're too skinny, and you can tell if you look hard enough, but you suppose it's not like anyone's going to see, or care. 

So, about 15 minutes later (you just have no energy lately and even though you took the short-cut it still took way too long) you find yourself back in the old dance studio, listening to Memories and too empty to even cry. 

_Oh memories, where'd you go?_

_You were all I've ever known_

_How I've missed yesterday,_

_And I let it fade away_

You smile bitterly, hitting the next button on the playlist and watching as it chooses The World Is Ugly by My Chemical Romance next. Really, you've started getting into them more and more because MCR is about trying to love yourself and that's something you relate to. 

_Cause I wanted you to know,_

_The world is ugly,_

_But you're beautiful to me._

You can't help but think how ironic it is that you're in exactly the same position you were before you met Brendon, two months ago; listening to music, feeling empty and wanting to die. 

_Are you thinking of me,_

_Like I'm thinking about you?_

Except, this time around, you're worse. Because it's not Nicotine, it's The World Is Ugly this time around. This time around, it's not about your addiction to pain, because now you couldn't care less about it. Now it's about how you hate your life, yourself, everything around you except him. 

_I would say I'm sorry, though,_

_Though I really need to go,_

_I just wanted you to know._

Now it's about how you can't get these  _stupid, stupid_ thoughts out of your head, these stupid,  _stupid_ hopes that maybe he'll come after all. 

_I wanted you to know,_

_I wanted you to know,_

_I'm thinking of you every night, every day._

You hit pause, sigh, and stand up, glad that at least you didn't break down sobbing because even though you hardly care if someone sees you crying anymore at least it's an improvement over the last time you were here like this. 

You think part of the reason you can't cry is because you're already  _dead,_ and dead things can't cry, because they're empty. They don't exist, and you wish you didn't either, so much so that maybe, in this ugly world you've finally stopped existing, too. 

Then you turn around, taking your earbuds out slowly, and then feel your dead heart maybe, just maybe, begin to beat again.

_"B-Brendon?"_

In barely the time it takes to blink, he crosses the distance between you and encompasses you in his arms, for once disregarding your personal space. And you don't flinch, despite how his movement reopens the recent cuts across your hips and thighs, despite how you automatically start to suck your stomach in because you're so unused to contact your body wants to recoil from it. 

"Did you miss me?" he asks, as bright and unsuspecting as ever, and you feel yourself relaxing into him despite yourself. 

"Yes," you respond, wanting to add  _more than you know,_ "I mean, without you I didn't have any free movies." 

He pulls back a little, looking offended. "Is that all I am to you? Free movie tickets?" You burst out laughing because really, he needs to work on his acting skills and, okay, you're relieved, you're surprised because  _what the hell, he came back,_ _you didn't think he was going to come back._

"Yup!" 

He huffs, trying to keep up his put out expression but failing. "You're so mean," he tells you, pulling back and looking you over. You do your best not to stiffen, telling yourself to just keep calm and he won't notice anything, but apparently Brendon's more observant than you gave him credit for because you can see his eyes narrow and you know you're in for it. 

"You've lost weight." 

You do your best to feign surprise. "Really? I hadn't noticed." 

"(Y/N)." 

"Brendon." You do your best to mimic his tone.

"What happened? Why did you lose weight?" you see him bite his lip, looking down as if physically cutting himself off from saying anything else- something you normally appreciate because you've never liked people who just go on and on without ever giving you a moment to speak but really, right now you'd like that. 

"Um," you try to think quickly because there's no way in  _hell_ that you're going to fucking tell him you didn't think he was going to come back and had been a day from ending it all, "My ex must've gotten wind of you leaving, cause it got worse." 

You feel proud of thinking up something that quick, especially as it wasn't even a lie, but Brendon looks less than impressed.

"And that made this," he motions towards your bony frame, "happen how, exactly?" 

"I didn't have the energy to eat," you reply, and see? It's not even a lie. You  _didn't_ have any energy that month without him. Just, not entirely because of your sadistic ex. But Brendon doesn't need to know that.

"You could've called me at least," he says next and you want to laugh because he's so oblivious, he doesn't know that you didn't even think he was coming back, let alone would answer your calls.

You shrug.

He sighs, like he does whenever you won't answer him about what's wrong with you (your words, not his, because he'd never say there was something  _wrong_ with you, even though you're certain he's thinking it), but instead of backing off, he cautiously reaches an arm out to hug you again, and this time, you reach out too. 

He's warm, surprisingly warm, you realize, like he'd run all the way there, and it's nice, because you've been so cold for weeks and being warm again is something you've wanted ever since he left. 

"I missed you," he murmurs into your hair.

"I missed you, too," you reply into his shoulder, and for a moment, just one moment, everything's okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking about maybe changing this fic's name to 'The Light Behind Your Eyes', and I wanted to see what you guys thought. Do you like it, think it's stupid, want to wipe the idea of the face of the earth?   
> Oh, and also, if you liked this chapter, please kudos and comment cause I appreciate every one and they are literally my sole motivation for writing the next sentence sometimes. ^^


	5. While The Crown Hangs Heavy On Either Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, this chapter's a doozy. A bunch of shit goes down, songs are sung, confessions made (well, sort of) and there's a whole lot of blood. And burnt flesh. And vodka. Just a warning.

"(Y/N)!" Brendon's voice echoes through the house as his footsteps come closer to your closed bedroom door and you silently curse because  _dammit,_ you weren't ready and if he comes in, the game's over. 

"Give me a second!" you yell back at him, dabbing at an almost dry cut on your leg.

Well. _The_ almost dry cut on your leg. For some reason, for the last few days or so (not ever since Brendon came back, because that was over a week and a half ago) you've just not been as much into the whole slicing your leg apart business. 

You blame Brendon. 

"I told you to get ready over an hour ago!" he retorts through the door and you sigh because yes, he did, but you were lazy and then you wanted to cut and then... well, you know. It takes a while for the blood to clot and dry. 

"Sue me, I'm lazy!" you tell him and he laughs. "Just give me a sec, okay?" 

You hear the floorboards creak and realize he's bouncing with impatience. "Hurry up then," he complains. You roll your eyes but don't respond and instead wriggle into your jeans, doing your best not to hiss when the fabric catches on the sensitive skin and rips it back open. At least they're black, not denim, because otherwise he'd be able to see and, well, we all know what would happen if he did. 

"(Y/N)," he whines, tapping on the door impatiently. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming," you answer, rolling your eyes and opening the door. He smiles when he sees you, stepping back to let you exit your room and then offering you a hug, which you step into without hesitation.

Ever since he came back from touring, he seems to be a lot more open with touching you- that, or now you're just letting him now. You think it could be a little bit of both. 

Really, it's grown a lot easier to accept contact recently- not with people in general, just with him- and you're not really sure what to think about that. You don't hold hands- you've only ever done that once, on the first day he met you- and you know he only thinks of you as a friend, if that, so other than hugging (which, okay, he actually seems to do a lot), you don't really touch.

But  _still._ Even that little bit of contact is more than you're used to, and you're not quite sure how to deal with it. 

"How's it going?" he asks, interrupting your thoughts and pulling back. 

You shrug. "Fine, I guess." 

"You guess?" he raises an eyebrow. 

"Yeah." 

He sighs when you refuse to elaborate, letting it go like he always does. 

Sometimes you wish he would, for once, push beyond what you're willing to say, because sometimes you  _want_ to tell him, you just don't know  _how._

Then, other times, you don't want to because you're afraid of how he'll react- he could get mad, or wrinkle his nose in disgust, or, worse, just walk away. And you can't let that happen. You just can't.

 

* * *

 

"I forgot to ask," you say after the two of you have been walking for a couple minutes, "Where exactly are we going?" 

Brendon just shrugs, looking over at you with something like a gentle smile. "I thought I'd let you choose for once. Where do  _you_ want to go?" 

You stare at him in something akin to horror. How the fuck are you supposed to choose something on such short notice? What if he doesn't like doing the same things you do? What if he finally realizes you're a waste of time? 

For once, Brendon seems to register what's wrong and stops, turns and puts a hand on your shoulder. "Don't worry about if I'll like it. Just pick something you want to do and I'll be fine with it." he pauses and makes a face. "As long as it's not watching you have a threesome or something. I could do without seeing that."

You snort. "Trust me, not about to go have a threesome any time soon." Or any remotely sexual encounter. One, because you don't want sex with anyone (hello, scars covering your body), and two, no one would want sex with you, either. So yeah, you're pretty safe from that.

"Well, that's a relief," he laughs, but there's a tight note to it you don't recognize. "Not that I'm against threesomes, just..." he looks down and you try not to flinch because,  _ouch,_ he just basically said he didn't ever want to see you naked, which, okay, is understandable (one, because you're you, and two, because you're, well, friends, you think, and even friends don't exactly like seeing each other naked) but he didn't have to say it so _bluntly._  

Of course, there's another way to take it, the 'I don't want to see you having a  _threesome'_ (as in he doesn't want to see you with two people other than _him_ ) way, but you push that thought away as quickly as you can because it's obviously not the right one. 

"Anyway," you mutter, bringing his attention back to you, "Anywhere?"

"Well, within reason," he replies, running a hand through his hair. "Obviously, I can't take you to Vegas or you'll miss school."

"Fuck school," you retort, making him laugh. 

"I'd normally say that, but I don't want to gain a reputation as the singer who discourages people from being in school."

You snort. "Yeah, that would be quite the tragedy, wouldn't it? The guy that openly drinks and uses drugs, discouraging teens from school? Oh, the tragedy." 

"I write sins, not tragedies," he mutters almost automatically then makes a face as if he just realized what he said. "And I'll have you know the weed's for my ADHD."

"Sure, just keep saying that." He rolls his eyes and you laugh.

 _"Anyway,_ what do you want to do?"

You shrug helplessly. "I have no idea. Could we just... walk around, maybe?" you give him a look that says 'I have no fucking clue' and he starts laughing. 

"Sure, if that's what you want to do, we can do that." Sometimes, you think Brendon's almost like a puppy in some respects; he's always bouncy (except for when he had a bad day at the studio) and both easy and eager to please. It's something you really like about him, because, well, if he doesn't mind a lot of things, there's a small chance he doesn't mind _you,_ either, you with all your flaws and issues and _brokenness,_ and that's something you're clinging onto because if he  _does_ mind... if he does mind, then you don't _mind_ dying, either. 

"Hey, look, (Y/N)! There's a pool over there!" You stiffen automatically (pools are your nemesis, have been ever since you gained your first scar). 

"Yeah, so?"

"We could go swim," he returns, looking at you as if it should be obvious- which it is. Far too obvious.

"I don't have a swimsuit," you say quickly- too quickly, but Brendon must've added extra sugar to his coffee this morning because he's too hyper to notice. 

"We can go back to your house to get it," he suggests, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

You sigh. "I  _don't_ have a  _swimsuit,"_ you repeat, and this time, Brendon gets it.

"Oh." Then his brow furrows. "How the hell do you not have a swimsuit?"

"Outgrew it," you shrug, which isn't even a lie, because you did... sort of. When you were going through one of those extreme weight loss periods of your life, it stopped fitting you so you threw it out (you've mostly gained the weight back since but you didn't want to get another one). 

"And you didn't get a new one?"

"I've been busy," you say, trying not to get defensive but not quite succeeding because he's  _so close,_ so close to pushing you over the edge and you're scared, okay? You don't want to do this, but you don't want to push Brendon away, either, and you don't know any way out without losing him to some extent.

"Let's go get one now, then," he says, eyes hopeful and you wish you could say 'yeah, sure' but that could only end badly because he's never even seen you in _short sleeves,_ let alone a one-piece, or, God forbid, a  _bikini._

"I'd really rather not," you say and look away when his face falls. You hate disappointing  _anyone,_ especially since that's all you seem to do; the fact that it's  _Brendon_ just makes it worse. 

"Are you sure?" he tries one final time, sounding a bit like a kicked puppy. You feel worse than you have for days- worse than you have since Brendon came back from touring- but you can't do this. You  _can't._

"No, Brendon," you say, a little bit harsher than you wanted to sound. You blame the near-panic state you're in now for that. "Not today."  _Not ever,_ you add silently. 

"But why?" he whines, looking more and more like a puppy every second and  _fuck,_ you need this to stop, you need the conversation to get somewhere else  _now._

"Just drop it," you snap.  

Brendon freezes and you freeze, too. 

And then his eyes narrow. 

"No," he says. "I want a reason."

"It's a  _pool,_ for Christ's sake!" You're scared, really scared because  _shit he's mad_ and you never wanted him to get mad, this is what happened with Kyle before he broke up with you and you know Brendon's  _not_ Kyle, and the two of you aren't even together, but you're still scared, and Brendon's so close,  _too_ close and...

"Yes!" he retorts, "It's a  _pool!_ It shouldn't be a big deal to just get a fucking swimsuit!" 

"Well it is!"

"Why?" 

"Because it is!"  _don't ask me, Brendon,_ you beg him silently.  _Please don't ask me._ But Brendon's  _really_ not a mind reader (or he's stubborn, which is a huge possibility, too). 

 _"Tell me,"_ he says, deadly quiet and you back up instinctively out of fear because in this case, quiet isn't good. Quiet is  _never_ good. 

"No." 

"Dammit, (Y/N)! Just fucking  _tell me!"_

You back up, afraid even though you know Brendon would never actually hurt you, tense and scared and you hate yourself for being weak enough to get yourself into this situation in the first place (if you hadn't been so weak, then you wouldn't have cut, then you'd be perfectly fine with swimming).

"No," you half-whisper, and then you turn and run. 

 

* * *

 

 

Brendon doesn't chase you, or call after you, which you're grateful for because you have no idea what you'd do if he did that. Instead, you run to the music of your erratic footsteps on pavement and the ghost of your and Brendon's words ringing in your ears. You're not really sure how long you run, just that you knew you had to get out of there,  _now._

When you finally slow down enough to take in your surroundings, you're back at that old dance studio that started this whole shindig. Apparently, your subconscious decided that going here would be better than going somewhere else better like, you know,  _home,_ but you're already here, you might as well go inside. Besides, you have your phone and earbuds, so it's not like you came ill-equipped.

So you walk in, phone in hand and untangling your earbuds as you go (you _swear_ the things tangle themselves up whenever you're not looking), not noticing one particular thing until it's almost too late.

The particular thing being Brendon, of course.

Brendon, sitting on the floor of the studio room with a guitar in his arms and singing.

_"Well I never really thought that you'd come tonight,_   
_While the crown hangs heavy on either side,_   
_Give me one last kiss while we're far too young to die,_   
_Far too young to die."_

His voice sounds nice- amazing, even though you can tell he's not warmed up and it's rough around the edges and breaks once or twice. It's still beautiful- really, you don't think anything can make it sound bad, not when you've heard him sing while he was completely and utterly drunk. It's also, like it's always been before, strangely calming and you feel yourself relaxing automatically.

 _"Fixation or psychosis?_  
_Devoted to neurosis now_  
 _Endless romantic stories,_  
 _You never could control me..."_

Even though his voice barely shows it (most likely the product of years of vocal training, or something), there's pain in his eyes and you can't help but think that it might be... because of you?

Well obviously not because of you, because that would be impossible. But maybe for yelling at you? Brendon's not exactly the most sensitive guy out there, but he's not the kind of guy that normally has a short temper, so he's probably regretting his outburst now. 

Maybe you should go to him? 

Maybe you should leave?

Only then do you realize Brendon has stopped singing and now has his gaze fixed on you.

"I'm sorry," he tells you quietly, putting his guitar to one side and patting the floor next to him. You hesitate for a moment before following his silent request and sitting down next to him. 

"I'm sorry for yelling at you. It's just..." he sighs, putting his head in his hands and all of a sudden looking so much younger and unsure. "Spencer left the band," he says quietly. 

You stiffen. His words have approximately the same affect a bucket of ice water does. "I'm sorry," you say back, even though you know that's nowhere near helpful for Brendon- I'm sorry has never helped anyone, and it's just a testament to how sad you are that you can't even think up something to say to the fucking guy you like who just had his best friend taken away from him. 

"Yeah," Brendon laughs, a lot sadder than a real laugh should sound like. "I'm basically in charge of the entire fucking band now. I mean, there's Dallon, but he's never been as much of a front liner as I've pretty much always been, and the label just doesn't recognize him as much as it does to me. Publicity-wise, I'm... I'm the main man now." he looks over at you, something a lot like terror in his eyes and you don't know how to respond, don't know because you've never been good at this kind of thing, and now all of a sudden Brendon is sitting in front of you with fear in his eyes telling you he basically feels responsible for carrying the entire weight of Panic! on his shoulders and  _shit,_ how the hell are you suppose to deal with this kind of thing? 

"I don't want to say this, God knows I don't, but I'm scared, (Y/N)," he almost whispers as if he's afraid someone else will hear. "I'm scared and I don't know what to do anymore and I took it out on you. And I know that's not an excuse, not really, but..." 

You still have no idea what to say, but you steel yourself and put an arm around Brendon, fully expecting him to shrug it off, but he doesn't. Instead, he leans in and returns it with all his strength, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down before his anxiety kicks in, and suddenly you realize that maybe you're not the only person who's hurt. That maybe Brendon's in pain, too, and maybe that means that he'll accept you, if he finds out. 

Maybe.

 

* * *

 

 

Brendon never mentions swimming or swimsuits again.

You're not quite sure what to think about it. On the one hand, it means you no longer have to worry about how you'll weasel yourself out of those situations; on the other, you're not really sure what's going through Brendon's head. Has he just lost interest? Is he simply biding his time? Maybe he somehow found out by himself and is now just waiting for the right opportunity to leave you? 

You're fairly certain that it's the first option, not any of the others- although you do have to admit, the third would be pretty bad, too. But you can't exactly call him out on it, because, firstly, Brendon's still trying to pick up the pieces of Panic! now that Spencer's not there, and secondly, well, what if he just forgot? You hardly want to make him remember and go back to trying to find out what the hell's wrong with you. 

Yeah, you don't think he's forgotten, really. It'd be pretty hard to forget something like that, especially seeing as you probably remind him of it every single time you mess up- which is a  _lot_ \- be it avoiding a question that you think is too deep (thankfully, your brain has now accepted the whole 'favorite song' question as being okay now) or that one time when you had a minor freak out when you and Brendon went to a store and walked by a rack of razors. 

Yeah, you don't think he's forgotten. But that doesn't mean he still  _cares._ Because really, even though this stupid, traitorous part of your brain wants him to find out (which doesn't even make sense; does your brain  _want_ Brendon to leave?), the larger, much more sensible part knows to never,  _never_ let him know what's going on. 

Ever. 

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, you blame Brendon for all that happened.

Well, Brendon and the vodka. 

It started out simply enough; a day out with Brendon, who looked worse than ever and was completely freaking out- because Spencer had always helped him with the label before and he doesn't know how to do this stuff alone. The two of you had gone to a park, walked around a bit, gotten ice-cream because Brendon just has this thing for it no matter how hot or cold it is outside, and then you tried not to laugh as Brendon practiced his white girl voice.  _  
_

"So," Brendon starts casually, chucking his empty ice cream bowl in the trash. 

"Yeah?"

"Did you... watch my periscopes when I was on tour?" 

You attempt to not blush and fail miserably. "Yeah. Every one of them." 

Something unreadable flashes across his eyes, sort of like a mix between fear and hope and something else you can't name. 

"So you saw the one with the bad AC in the concert hall?" his tone is still light, but you stiffen because you remember what else was on the scope and  _you're an idiot,_ because of course, he has someone he likes and he probably wants to go see her now and that means he'll be leaving you. 

"Yeah," you say again, looking away because you can't bear to look in his eyes. "The one when you talked about that girl you like?" you force a smile and look up at Brendon. "She must be pretty special."

"She is," he answers, looking at you with this strange glint in his eyes that you have no idea how to read except that whatever it is, it can't be good for you. "And I..." he swallows nervously, which you don't get because why would he even be telling this to you, let alone be  _nervous_ about it? "I like her. A lot." 

You feel like someone just reached into your chest and wrenched out your heart.  _Obviously,_ you knew it couldn't be you, but you can't deny that you had this hope, just for a second. 

"That's great," you grit out through the worrying blur of your vision. "I'm sorry, but I need to go."

You just have a second to see the pure and utter confusion mixed with... _rejection? What?_ on Brendon's face before you're running. 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Idiot. Stupid,_ stupid  _girl._

You look down at your legs, only vaguely surprised when you see more blood than you've ever seen before at once collecting there and dripping to the floor. You've definitely gone to town on your legs; if you hadn't been able to wear shorts before, this will definitely ruin any and every chance you ever had of doing so. You're really happy your parents went out for the weekend; you're not sure you'd have been able to stop if they came in unexpectedly. 

But it's still not enough. It's not enough anymore, you need  _more_ but you've already destroyed both of your thighs, you can't cut there anymore, and you don't want to cut on your arms- Brendon's already too close, you can't let him get any more suspicious.

Then you scoff. He has someone else. He just told you, to your face, less than an hour ago- at least you think it's not been an hour yet. You're not really quite sure. 

But he'll hardly notice if you begin to fidget with your sleeves every so often- you used to do that within the first couple weeks of meeting him, anyway, before you moved to your legs, so it's not like it's a new thing. So you roll up your sleeve, switch your blade to your non-dominant hand (because that arm's already pretty badly scarred up and your dominant arm isn't at all) and begin.

 

* * *

 

 

But even that wasn't enough. So next you tried burning; it helped more, but then you thought about Brendon again, kissing someone else, someone  _perfect_ and thin and beautiful, without your emotional baggage and awkwardness and  _worthlessness_ and even that wasn't enough.

So that's what finds you sitting on your bed with an overly long sweatshirt on to cover the recent scars and burns, drinking vodka and cursing your existence.

You wish you'd never met Brendon. Surely your life wouldn't have gotten this bad, this fast, if you hadn't. And sure, you had a lot of good times with him, but they were fleeting, not able to cover the sadness that returned with more and more force until now, it's overpowering. 

Maybe if you'd never even heard of Panic!'s songs... But then you shake your head- or try to. You hadn't realized how strong vodka was until just now.

If you had never heard Panic! you'd probably be dead now. They saved you- it was meeting Brendon that broke you. 

Well, it was Brendon getting another girl that really broke you, but that's hardly relevant. Really, nothing's all that relevant now, it's just sort of a pleasant, fuzzy blur and you can get why people become alcoholics- being this free of worries and cares is a luxury you haven't had since... maybe your 10th or 11th birthday, and it's freeing. So freeing, in fact, that you find yourself dialing Brendon's number. 

Why the hell you think it's a good idea, you don't really know, but you're too drunk to think about it. Which is, again, really unlike you because you overthink  _everything,_ but maybe you can get to used to this. It's kind of nice, really, not thinking about anything. 

"(Y/N)? Are you okay?" he sounds panicked, but you're too drunk to realize- or care.

"Yeah," you try to say, but it comes out slurred.  _What?_ "Yeah, I'm fine," you try again, and this time it comes out slightly less slurred, but not by much.

"Are you... drunk?" Brendon asks slowly, sounding progressively more and more concerned with every word. 

"No," you respond, then reconsider. You're not actually sure. "Maybe? I don't know..." you're tempted to giggle, which is again strange because you normally almost never laugh. 

"Hang on, I'm coming," Brendon tells you and hangs up, his tone sounding... scared, maybe? You can't really tell. 

Well, whatever. You might as well keep drinking. Except, when you go to pick the bottle back up, it slips out of your fingers and crashes onto the ground. So you just sit there, staring blankly at it until you hear your front door opening and quick footsteps coming towards your door. 

"(Y/N)? Are you in there?" if your brain wasn't currently completely out of it with the effects of the vodka, you would've been able to detect the fear in his tone, but being as utterly drunk as you are, it all floats past your brain. 

"Yeah." 

Brendon opens the door cautiously as if he's expecting you to attack him or something, but as soon as he sees you, his eyes widen in shock. 

"What the hell did you  _do,_ (Y/N)?" 

You pause for a second. For a minute, when you open your mouth, you almost tell him about what you'd been doing in the bathroom less than an hour before, but thankfully, you're not quite  _that_ drunk yet (that, or you're just really, really good with keeping your own secrets) and just reply, "Vodka... I think."

"You  _think?"_

You look down at the broken pieces of the bottle. "Yeah."

You vaguely hear Brendon sigh, before he's next to you, picking the broken bottle up. You just watch him silently as he does so, not saying anything until he's finished. Well, or after he's finished, either, because apparently even when drunk you can't think up conversation to save your life. 

"Why?" 

You sluggishly turn your head to look at him. "What?" 

He sits down next to you, closer than he normally would but strangely, you don't mind it at all. "Why did you do this?" 

For once, you don't even think about what you're saying, just blurt it out. "You." 

He stiffens, and if you were sober, you'd notice the pain that flashes across his face. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," you mumble. "It's all my fault..." 

Now, even drunk you can see the pain in his eyes. "Why is it your fault?" 

"It always is. 'Cause I'm never..." your brain cuts out before 'good enough' and your eyes start to drift close. 

"You're never what?" 

You manage to mutter out a low "Good enough" before you're half-asleep. Brendon is silent for a long moment, presumably watching you, before he gently re-positions you so you're lying the right way on your bed and under the covers. 

"Sleep well," he murmurs to you, and you think you feel something like a kiss on your eyelids, but you're already pretty far gone into sleep so you can't be sure. "We'll talk tomorrow." 

 

* * *

 

 

He's not there when you wake up, so you just sit there for awhile, trying to ignore your pounding headache and failing miserably. 

When you finally get up, it's to vomit repeatedly into the toilet. It brings back bad memories- that time when you decided you didn't look right and so spent the next couple months not eating and bending over the toilet whenever you did, for instance. But your stomach won't settle down, and your head won't stop pounding like someone spent the night banging on it with a hammer, so you can't exactly leave the toilet unless you want the floor directly outside the bathroom covered in vomit. Which you don't particularly want, so. 

But then, when your stomach finally stops turning and your brain starts functioning again, you remember just what happened last night and curse.  _Of course_ you just had to say that. No wonder he wasn't there when you woke up. 

And then, because you're already in the bathroom and you hate yourself more than ever, you get out the razor again. It's still bloody from yesterday- disturbingly so, really- but you've stopped caring about being sanitary. 

You're halfway through your fifth for that day when you hear the front door knob turn unexpectedly and freeze. Have you parents come home early? 

But then you hear Brendon's voice sound through the house (hey, (Y/N), you up yet?) and panic because he's infinitely worse than your parents. 

 _Shit shit shit._ You're trapped, and you know it, because for once you forget to take anything into the bathroom with you in order to clean up the blood so you have no way of cleaning up the small pool of blood on the floor.  _Shit._

"(Y/N)? You here?" You keep quiet, making your breaths as shallow as possible because maybe, just maybe, you can convince him you're not in the house. But apparently you've just run out of luck, because you hear Brendon's footsteps starts towards you; apparently he noticed the closed bathroom door. 

"Are you in there?"

You stand up with a sigh, knowing the game's over.  

"I'm busy," you try, as a last, feeble resort.

"Doing what?" 

You don't answer; Brendon gets closer. You feel tears begin to build up in your eyes, despite how much you wish they wouldn't, but then, Brendon's going to leave you in the next couple of minutes, so you guess you can cry, just this once.

Of course, Brendon hears you sniffle, which officially seals the deal for him and you know there's probably nothing that can keep him out now.

"I'm coming in now," he tells you and you stifle a sob, turning your head away.

"Don't-" you say, but he opens the door, steps in- and freezes.

You have just one second to feel your world crumble apart before you look back up at him, blinking away tears, with blood dripping down your arm and every scar on your arms open for view. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! And also that you're not too mad at me for ending it where I did, but as it's basically 5k words I didn't think it'd be wise to try to put too much more there or you guys would never finish reading it.  
> Like always, reviews are much appreciated, make my day, and help clear my (potential) writer's block up if I get it. So yeah, comment, kudos, cry, throw your computer across the room, whatever this chapter makes you feel like doing.


	6. And Did You Come to Stare or Wash Away the Blood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would like to apologize. Firstly, for the longer than usual wait for the next chapter; secondly, for the much shorter chapter, and thirdly for the sucky chapter. I feel really bad posting this because I know you guys seem to have all been looking forward to this particular word vomit and it's pretty terrible no matter how many times I've tried to fix it, so I'm really, really sorry. I feel like I've let you down and I wish I hadn't but I had to post something so... here it is. Enjoy (maybe?).

Your heart feels like it might've just taken an impromptu visit to Antarctica. 

All you can do is just stand there, mutely horrified, with your sleeves rolled all the way up to your elbows, a razor in your hand, and blood- blood on the blade, on your arm, on the floor. 

Brendon just gapes at you. 

 _"No,"_ he finally whispers. You flinch away from his hands as they reach towards your arm, waiting for the inevitable- the scorn, contempt because you're  _weak,_ and now both of you know that- but it doesn't happen.

"No," he says again, louder, like he barely registers what's happening- you can get that because you don't really, either. "No, (y/n), no..." he looks up at you and you can see pain in his eyes, more pain than you think you've ever seen directed towards you- or anybody, really. "Please tell me this is a dream, (y/n).  _Please."_

You wish you could, you really, really do, because you're fragile, and right now you're about to break, because even though he's not yelling at you, this  _hurts,_ seeing Brendon in pain  _hurts_ and you want it to stop but you don't know  _how._

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

Brendon lets go of your arm, leaving you cold for a split second before he's hugging you, tight enough that you think he might be trying to get you to cough up your lungs and all you can hear is the vibration of his heartbeat against yours and the words  _I'm the one that's sorry._

"It's not your fault, you didn't know," you argue quietly into his shoulder, ignoring the sting of your now aggravated cuts.

"I should've. I should've realized you were lying to me." he squeezes you even tighter and for a second you can't breathe. "I'm sorry, (y/n). I'm so sorry."

When you don't respond, he slowly lets you go and examines your arm again. You look away, hating even the _sight_ of your arm- the scars, the blood, the cuts- because when you're not actually doing the deed, you hate everything about it. Like you said a long, long time ago- it's your addiction and you just can't get rid of it. 

"I'm going to need to clean it," he tells you and you almost jump because you'd forgotten he was even there.

"You don't have to, I never did," you say and wince. If he hadn't thought you were crazy before, he probably does now.

"Well, you have me now," he announces with an over-exaggerated British accent, "And I'm going to do this properly." 

You smile a little bit despite yourself, amazed that even though you can tell he's in pain (over you, which you still don't quite get), he's still trying to make you feel better. You wish you could be that selfless. 

"Do you have any alcohol?" he asks. 

You give him a look.

"The kind for wounds," he adds, rolling his eyes. "I'm not about to pour vodka on your arm, don't worry."

You tell him where it is and brace yourself for the inevitable sting, but it doesn't come immediately. Instead, there's a second of silence and then Brendon's dabbing something cold on your arm that stings, but not nearly as much as just pouring the contents of the bottle on the wounds would. 

"Does it hurt?"

You're tempted to roll your eyes and respond  _of course it does, idiot_ but he's been so nice  _(too_ nice, for someone like you) and you don't want to seem ungrateful. Especially when you don't deserve this at all. 

"It's fine." 

Brendon doesn't look overly happy at your use of 'fine' but he doesn't say anything, just dips the cotton ball (apparently that's what he'd been dabbing your cuts with) back into the disinfectant and keeps cleaning. Once he finishes that, he dives back into your medicine cabinet for bandages, applies them a bit clumsily, and then sits back and looks up at you. 

You look away, knowing what's coming next; the infamous  _we need to talk._

But once again, Brendon surprises you; he stands up, takes your good arm gently and leads you back to your room, where he sits besides you on your bed and locks eyes with you again. 

"How long?" 

It's different than what you'd been expecting- you'd been anticipating a  _why_ or something to that motif. 

"A couple years, I guess," you mumble, unable to meet his eyes. "It only got bad recently."

"How recently?" there's no judgement in his tone, just concern, and no pity either, which is again surprising but you'll definitely take it. 

"Six months, I guess? It sort of stopped a little for a month or so..." you almost physically clamp your jaw shut because no way in  _hell_ are you going to tell him that that month was the first month with him. 

Although... something in Brendon's expression makes you think maybe you should've told him that after all. 

"Was just now a good day or a bad day?"

You don't want to answer, you really don't. Brendon's already seen what you do to yourself; he doesn't need to know just how far you go. But you doubt you're going to be able to lie to him again, not this close to him finding out about this.

"I wasn't even halfway through a bad day when you came in," you admit lowly, wishing your bed would turn into a wormhole and suck you into oblivion. 

"Okay," Brendon says simply, lying back on your bed. 

"Okay?" you don't get how he can be so calm, yet here he is. "How is any of this  _okay?"_

Brendon shrugs, looking back up at you and you can see the new pain in his eyes. "It's not. What you're doing to yourself is _not_ okay. But right now, right now _we're_ okay." he looks up at you, his smile in between gentle and nervous. "Right?" 

You smile, forcing yourself to forget everything else, like that girl Brendon told you he liked (and looked weirdly rejected when you ran off), the fact that the voices in your head are still there and they're not going to go away just because one single man stayed for a couple hours after learning what you do to yourself...because right now, it doesn't matter.

"Yeah," you say. "We're okay."

 

* * *

 

And you are.

Well, kinda.

Yeah, it's weird and awkward and you wish he'd never found out because he looks sadder, now, and there's always this guilty look in his eyes whenever he sees the bandages on your arm, but you're okay.

Brendon starts spending more and more time at the studio, but instead of leaving you alone at your house, he picks you up almost every day after school and brings you with him. Of course, he gives you a choice, but watching Brendon goof around in the studio- sometimes with Dallon, who's a bit iffy towards you at first but warms up, and sometimes just by himself, is infinitely better than sitting at home watching old reruns of Supernatural or re-watching the most recent Philisnotonfire for the thousandth time, so you usually accept.

Except, of course, on your bad days, because you're a self-destructive _idiot_ who apparently  _wants_ to suffer even though Brendon knows and he hasn't left yet- even though he never mentions that girl again which makes you curious, because why hasn't he? 

On your bad days, being the idiot you are, you decline his invitations and tell him you're 'too tired'.

Of course, most days, he sees through that now, and either forces you to come with him or stays at your house with you. But some days...

Some days, Brendon's still too thick, or your excuses are too good, and being the _idiot_ you are, you use that to your advantage. Well. _Dis_ advantage. Because the only one benefiting from these days is, well, no one.

You still can't seem to believe that Brendon's still here, that he actually  _wants_ to be around you. So your brain does what it's always done whenever it's in a situation it doesn't like or understand; it self-destructs. 

So as you cut into the skin of your thighs, you tell yourself that Brendon's not going to find the cuts this time, not when you never wear shorts, or swimsuits, or anything other than pants and long sleeves. And even if he did- he didn't tell you to stop, so he won't mind, right? All he did was patch you up, so it'll be fine.

Of course, you know that's idiocy. The rational part of your brain knows that he didn't like it, and the cynical part whispers that since he doesn't like it that, maybe, he'll leave the next time he finds out. 

So, of course, because your brain wants to self-destruct, this is exactly what you do. And if Brendon finds you and leaves you, well, he was going to anyway. 

 

* * *

 

He never asks you why.

It confuses you, really; isn't that the first thing people are supposed to ask? But Brendon didn't ask, still hasn't. You think he might never.

And even though most of you is perfectly fine with that, there's this part of your mind, deep, deep down, that wants him to ask, wants him to  _care._

But he doesn't. So he doesn't care.

And you don't either. 

At least, that's what you tell yourself. It doesn't really succeed, because after so many years of lying to yourself, it's stopped working. But you can't _make_ Brendon ask, and you're not about to volunteer the information yourself, so you keep quiet.

It's not really that bad of a life now, though, really- in fact, it's amazing. What could  _not_ be amazing about listening to your favorite singer, after all? Especially when your favorite singer happens to be an extremely hyper, ADHD man named Brendon Urie who bursts into song randomly and pulls so many faces it's hard to keep up with them. 

So you keep quiet. Brendon's sweeter than ever; he comes by your house almost every day once you're done with school and asks you what you want to do, and it doesn't even matter what you say, he'll do it. _Except_ for that one time you told him to tweet his phone number to every single one of his followers. 

It kinda makes you feel bad for doing what you do in the (relatively uncommon) days you don't see him. The rational part of your brain knows he doesn't want you to do this, but you can't stop. You  _can't,_ and Brendon might've stopped you once but you doubt he'll do it again. You know well enough not to push people to their limits because it _never_ bodes well. And you're not going to do that with Brendon. You  _can't_ do that with Brendon. 

But you can't stop this, either. It's the only time you can feel  _okay,_ because you can let the pain distract you from all those other little thoughts that nag at you and worry you, whispers of  _you'll never be good enough for him_ and  _he likes someone else, he's just going to leave one day_ and  _see? You're fucking worthless._

So you keep going, deeper and longer, because you want it to go away and this is the only way it does. 

"(Y/N)!" 

Well. You suppose the terror that floods you with the sound of his voice might make the voices go away as well. 

You look down, for once happy you'd only made one cut thus far and thus hadn't gotten any blood anywhere. With a quick movement, you pull your pants back up and throw your razor under the bathmat, then flush the toilet and run the sink water.

"Yeah?" you ask after a minute as you hear Brendon's footsteps come closer. There's a pause, then a quick step and Brendon flings the bathroom door open, his eyes wider than normal and tinged with fear. 

"Don't just fling the door open like that, idiot," you tell him as normally as possibly, throwing in an eye roll at the end. "It's a fucking  _bathroom,_ a girl needs her privacy."

Brendon doesn't respond. Instead, he grabs your arms and rolls the sleeves up, his brow furrowing when all he sees are silvery scars and the five still slightly scabbed over ones from a week ago. You try not to let out a bitter laugh; why do they always seem to think the only place you can cut is the arms? Hell, you could even cut on your fucking  _stomach_ if you really, really wanted to. But _no,_ only check on the arms.  _  
_

You sigh, waiting for him to give it up and realize he was 'wrong'. But apparently Brendon's gotten smarter, because he doesn't. He just takes a step closer to you, presumably to check your arms closer- and then stiffens. 

_Shit._

From the downward glance towards his foot, you know exactly what happened- he must've felt the razorblade under his foot. He bends down, pulls the bathmat up, and picks the blade up carefully. 

The  _bloody_ blade. 

"Where did you do it?" he asks, low and dangerous and you know that he's not going to back down. 

"I'm not about to show you. I do have _some_ sense of privacy," you retort. 

His jaw clenches, but like always, he forces his anger down. "Just tell me where it is." 

"Why? It's not like you can just check there from now on." 

He sighs, shaking his head incredulously. "Are you really  _that_ stupid? Yeah, I screwed up again, I should've realized what you were doing in your days away from me- I'm a fucking idiot, I know- but you can't  _really_ think that I don't care enough about you to not want to know where you're hurting." 

You stay silent.

Brendon gapes at you. "Really? You _really_ think that?" His voice breaks and by the end of the sentence, his eyes are pained and you just want this to _stop,_ because you don't like seeing him in pain. 

You still don't reply, so Brendon reaches forward and gently brushes your hair out of your eyes, cupping your cheek with one hand once he's finished. 

"You're a fucking idiot," he tells you, but his words are affectionate, not sharp. "I know that you might not believe me even once I tell you this, but I care about you. If I didn't, I wouldn't be here right now." 

Before you can respond- and how would you even respond to that, anyway?- Brendon grabs your face gently and plants a kiss on your forehead. He lingers a bit longer than you think a friend would, but when he draws back his expression is just a bit sadly pained. 

"There," he says. "Now you have a... thing to fall back on whenever you think I don't care."

You smile a little despite yourself- he literally just _kissed_ you and the next sentence out of his mouth was completely awkward, almost like he used up all his chill with the kiss.  _  
_

"They're on my thighs," you say suddenly, wanting to regret saying it instantly but not being able to bring yourself to when the small, sad smile on Brendon's face morphs into a big one. 

"Thank you," he tells you, his eyes softer than they were just seconds ago. You're not quite sure how to deal with that look. 

 _"Aw,_ you're so _sweet,"_ you answer in that singsong tone he can't stand just so he'll stop with that  _look._

"Shut up," he, predictably enough, laughs. "You know I'm not."

You smirk at him, secretly relieved it worked. "Whatcha wanna do?" 

"I dunno, I took the day off so I guess we can just... chill."

"Avengers?"

"You kidding me? Of course." 

You laugh, grabbing the DVD from the table where it had somehow ended up after you cleaned your room out a month or so ago and then head towards the TV. 

"Hey, you want me to order pizza?" Brendon calls from the kitchen, presumably looking for either alcohol or water- you can never tell with him. 

"Yeah, go ahead," you call back.

"Cheese?"

"Sure." 

Brendon calls back a hurried 'k' and then there's silence, so you assume he's calling up the pizza place. You turn the TV on and slide the disk in the DVD player, before sitting back and waiting for Brendon to return.

He doesn't take long; in less than a minute he breezes back in, telling you the pizza's going to be there in a half hour. He then plops down next to you on the sofa, a bit closer than you think a friend would- not that you're protesting, because you're definitely not. 

"What are you staring at? Turn the movie on already." 

You smile and press play. 

 

* * *

 

 

When the pizza comes, the two of you are partway through the movie, so Brendon, who seems to have this thing against pausing movies, dashes to the door to pay for the pizza and brings it back. Of course, he manages to miss one of your favorite Stark sarcasm moments, which sucks for him since you refuse to rewind, but all in all, it's a pretty good movie. 

Especially when you take in the fact that you somehow manage to end up almost in Brendon's lap with no explanation on how it happened- you're fairly certain you haven't moved an inch, so unless Brendon did, there's no way this could've happened. And Brendon wouldn't do that... would he?

You're not sure, not really. You just know that by the time the Hulk had smashed Loki into a whimpering, submissive puppy, Brendon's hip is pressed up against yours and his arm is on top of the couch, loosely wrapped around your shoulders. 

You're not really sure what to make of it. 

And you still don't when, several minutes later, Ironman is crashing to the earth half-dead and muttering about shawarma and Brendon's fingertips are lightly grazing your right shoulder. 

When the movie ends, you don't want to move, but the next movie is waiting and it's not going to get itself. But, miraculously, Brendon gets up first and goes over to the DVD pile, asking if you have the Dark Knight Rises and a bit brutally shoving it into the DVD player. 

When he walks back over, he just flops down back next to you, not even pretending to keep up the facade of distance this time. You raise an eyebrow and he grins. 

"Your house doesn't have any damn blankets," he retorts, "And you're not exactly cold, so." he gives you what could pass for a wink and you have a second to wonder if he just flirted with you before the moment's gone and Brendon's seizing the remote and starting the movie.

 

* * *

 

 

The two of you keep watching movies, mostly action ones although by the end of the day you manage to get him to watch The Fault in our Stars (he cries like a baby which is perfectly fine by you since you kind of do the same). Brendon doesn't move away, and you don't either; in fact, by the end of TFIOS you're leaning on him just a little and his arm has gone from being around the top of your shoulders to being wrapped protectively around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

Brendon yawns as the credits come on, pulling you a little tighter against him. You start a little and look out the window, eyes widening when you realize it's already dark.

"What is it?" Brendon asks, his speech slurred a bit from tiredness.

"Nothing, I just... didn't realize what time it was." 

Brendon glances at the window, too, and laughs. "Yeah, me neither. I should probably get going soon."

 _Stay._ The thought echoes through your brain; you try to shut it off but don't quite succeed. It's a stupid thought, you know that, and it's never going to happen- you're not sure you  _want_ it to happen because your brain does this thing after 12 where you spill all your deepest thoughts you'd never say otherwise, and also, well, your parents are going to be back tomorrow morning and you don't want them to find an adult man in their house. 

"Yeah," you say, not seeing how his expression pinches for a second before smoothing over, then untangle yourself from him (how the hell did you even get this close to him? You do  _not_ remember this happening). "My parents are coming back soon anyway so you should probably get going." you don't tell him  _when,_ exactly, they're coming back, but it's not like it matters, anyway, so why bother? 

"Yeah," Brendon agrees, laughing, "Don't wanna let your parents catch you with me, I'm a bad influence."

"Eh, not really. You haven't gotten me to smoke weed yet." 

"Just wait, I'll have you doing it soon enough."

"What happened to having a medical license before doing it?"

Brendon waves a hand. "That's old school. Who needs that shit anymore?" 

You roll your eyes, knowing he's joking- even though he doesn't seem like it, he'd never actually break the law (driving over the speed limit doesn't count), especially when it comes to drugs.

When you finish your eye roll, Brendon's watching you with that weird look in his eyes that you really, really don't like because you simply have no idea what it is and you don't like the unknown. 

 _"Leave_ already," you tell him, standing up and shoving at him playfully in order to break his gaze. "If you don't leave now you'll have to end up staying the night or something."

You tell yourself that that flash behind his eyes was just your own  _slight_ want reflected back at you, not his own. Because there's no way he actually  _wants_ to be around you more than he has to, despite what he says.

 _"Fiiiine,_ I'll go," Brendon mutters, rolling his eyes. "You're so pushy."

"You love it."

Brendon snorts. "Sure I do." And then he's gone out your front door, leaving you hopelessly confused because his last sentence did not sound  _nearly_ as sarcastic as it should've. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. There's the product of days of writer's block and hours of frustration. Once again, I'm sorry if this didn't live up to your expectations- maybe I can try to rewrite if you guys think it sucked that much? Idk. Anyway, please leave a comment below to tell me what you thought about it.


	7. When The World Gets Too Heavy (Put It On My Back)

You never do quite figure out what the hell Brendon had meant by that not quite sarcastic 'sure I do'. He never brings it up again, never says anything like that again, and seems to forget he ever said it, so you assume that he didn't mean it the way you _(stupid, stupid you)_ took it- otherwise, he would've brought it up again, or at least acted a little differently. 

But he doesn't. He's just the same as before; crazy, hyper, and more energetic and quirky than any human being you've ever seen before. You can tell Spencer's absence weighs on him a lot, especially as now he's the only original member of Panic! left and basically feels responsible for the entire band- which is just him and Dallon, since they're doing nothing except write songs at the moment and don't have any tours to go on. And you can tell Brendon's getting frustrated because, according to him, he can't write anything anymore without Spencer's input- you personally think his demos sound fine, if a bit rough and at times a bit awkward, but then you suppose you don't exactly have a professional opinion. 

But despite the fact that he's growing busier and busier, as well as more frustrated because according to him,  _nothing_ seem to work, he still somehow finds time to see you. You don't get it, because the few friends you ever had had always abandoned you whenever they were working on something else, like a particularly difficult school project or a new sport, and now you have a guy that's trying to write songs to keep his band from falling apart and yet somehow manages to find time for you? It doesn't make sense.

You suppose, though, that that's an accurate description of Brendon Urie: he doesn't always make sense. Well,  _ever_ make sense, really. It doesn't make sense how he takes your razors and grazes your cuts with his fingers far, far too often to be accidental- almost like he subconsciously wants to  _touch_ them or something equally weird (they're disgusting, why the hell would he  _want_ to touch them?). It doesn't make sense how he'll give you this smile that makes you smile back no matter how bad of a mood you're in and sometimes looks at you like there's something he really, really wants to say but never gets the courage to do so. 

And it doesn't make sense how, despite everything you've done, everything he's learned you do (and still do, really, but much less often because Brendon is growing smart now and you can't bear causing him any more pain than he's already gone through because, as weird as it is, seeing you hurt yourself hurts him), even after all that, he still sticks around. 

It doesn't make sense. But he's still here. And he comes by pretty much every day now (you have no idea how he's still never met your parents; you guess Brendon must have superpowers), taking you to the studio with him or to see a movie, or sometimes just staying at home with you and watching reruns of old TV shows. 

It just doesn't  _make sense,_ why he's still here, why he does what he does, but he  _does._ He does and, God help you, you like it. You crave it, because, well, you've never exactly felt wanted, or loved- you're not saying Brendon either wants  _or_ loves you, but he makes you feel like he at least  _cares,_ in some small aspect, about you.

Which, again, doesn't make  _sense_ because you look in the mirror and stare at yourself and hate every inch of your body. You don't get it; how can Brendon even bear to be around you? You're flawed, you know it, and not just that, you're broken and bruised and battered and not even _whole,_ yet Brendon's still here. The only reason you can think of for him to still be here would be that he just hasn't realized how bad off you are- but that doesn't make sense, either, because he's seen you with blood running down your arm; how bad does it have to be before he realizes you're beyond saving?

"Hey, you okay?"

You jump. You'd completely forgotten that Brendon was even there. "Yeah, fine," you mutter distractedly. 

Brendon raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Mhm, sure you are."

"Just..." you try to think up a valid reason for zoning out, "Thinking."

"What about?"

"Nothing interesting," you mumble. Brendon's gaze sharpens and you know he'll have filed this moment away for later, but he doesn't push it, instead unpausing the movie you'd been watching and turning his attention back to it. You try to do the same, and only partially succeed. So what? Brendon's distracting at times and you like looking at him whenever he's not looking; sue you, he's attractive. You'd thought he was attractive before you even met him in person for the first time; now that you know him, you just think it even more. His eyes, his hair, his jawline- fucking  _everything_ about him is attractive and it frustrates you because all it ever does is remind you of just how much you pale in comparison to him. 

"Can't keep your eyes off of me, huh?" Brendon's looking back at you now with a smirk on his lips and you try not to blush.

"Shut up."

"But can you?" amidst the teasing, there's something else, like  _hope_ or something equally weird that you shrug off because  _dammit_ why can't Brendon actually make fucking sense for once?

You roll your eyes and look back to the movie, answering as dismissively as possible. "Obviously. I just did." 

You hear something almost like a sigh and see Brendon turn his own gaze back to the TV screen out of your peripheral. Secretly, you're relieved he apparently believed you; it would  _not_ do if he knew you liked him. Of course it wouldn't be like it was new for him, the whole girls- and guys- he doesn't even know having crushes on him thing, but you're pretty sure he thinks most of them are in more of the obsession category. If he learned about your, uh,  _feelings_ for him, you doubt he'd want to hang around you anymore. It'd most likely be the deal breaker for him never seeing you again. 

And you're not letting going to let the only person who ever seemed to actually  _care_ when you had a particularly bad day in school and let something slip loose about how much you hate it go. You're just not. 

So, until these stupid  _feelings_ can learn to go away on their own, you're just going to keep quiet because you can't lose him. You  _can't._

 

* * *

 

You must've fallen asleep sometime between the slightly awkward conversation with Brendon and the end of the movie because, when you wake up, it's to a gentle, rocking rhythm as someone carries you to your bedroom. 

When said person gets there and lays you on the bed- more gently than you remember either of your parents ever being, and besides, they wouldn't carry you to your bed, just let you sleep on the couch- you automatically cling onto them, refusing to let go. You're still mostly asleep- that's your excuse for this, and you're sticking to it. 

Especially when you hear a low, breathy laugh you've only ever heard one person use and the words, "Someone's a little pushy, isn't she?" 

It's almost enough to wake you up, but in the end you decide that it'll just be better if you pretend you're not awake, so you let go of Brendon and let your arms flop limply to your sides, then roll over and face away from him. 

"No need to be like that," Brendon says lowly, laughter in his tone despite what your sleepy brain seems to think is sadness. "I'm not going to leave you, okay?" there's a second of silence and then the bed dips as Brendon sits down. Of course, then you suddenly realize just how small your bed is and are torn between moving in order to give him room and thus giving away that you're actually awake, and simply staying put. You eventually decide on the latter and try to keep your breaths relatively even and steady. 

"I know you're probably still partially awake," Brendon tells you and you try not to tense up- he knew, of  _course_ he knew all along- but don't quite succeed. "Don't worry, I'm not going to laugh at you for doing this when you wake up fully. I'm not  _that_ much of a dick." Brendon chuckles, a bit nervously, and then there's another moment of silence.

"Uh," he finally tries, "So, I was talking to Patrick on the phone the other day. And I know you don't get a lot of sleep, despite what you tell me-" Brendon breaks off briefly and mutters under his breath, "You're talking to someone who's probably asleep now, you idiot." When he stays silent for another second, you almost open your eyes and tell him to keep going, but thankfully, Brendon proceeds of his own volition.

"Patrick told me Pete has insomnia and he used to sing Pete to sleep every night it got really bad." he shifts a little bit and you hear the bed springs creak. "And I know you're probably back asleep already, but, I dunno, I thought I'd sing to you. You know, if you don't mind."

He pauses and laughs lowly. "Of course you don't, you're asleep. Why would I even ask that? But..." there's another second of silence, "I just... want to do something for you. You never let me do anything, and, you know, I just want to help..." he coughs, a bit awkwardly. "So I'm going to sing to you. I'd ask your preference, but you're probably too far gone to be able to answer, so I'll just pick for you."

He hesitates again and you can imagine the look on his face. "Don't criticize my music taste when you hear it, okay?" despite the amusement, he sounds just a little bit uncertain and it just makes you l- like him more.  _Dammit._ Because apparently you can't stop thinking about him even mostly asleep. Awesome, right?

Brendon clears his throat. 

_"When the world gets too heavy,_

_Put it on my back,_

_I'll be your levy._

_You are taking me apart,_

_Like bad glue,_

_On a get well card."_

You can't but blearily wonder, through the encompassing tiredness, how singing one of his own songs is considered 'bad music taste', really. He wrote it, obviously he knows what he's singing.

_"It was always you, falling for me,_

_Now there's always time, calling for me,_

_I'm the light blinking at the end of the road,_

_Blink back to let me know."_

...Or does he, really? Surely he realizes what context this song can be taken as? 

Well, whatever. Brendon can just sing his sort-of love song; you don't care at  _all._ Nope. You're just going to go to sleep and forget all about it the next morning. 

 

* * *

 

You do  _not_ forget about it the next morning. 

In fact, as you wake up to a heavy body partially on top of you at 6 a.m., you'd say that, along with the person that's currently in an extremely awkward position halfway on top of you and halfway on the floor, the song is the foremost thing on your mind. 

_Why would he sing that?_

The thought goes, for the most part, unanswered as you fruitlessly attempt to lift Brendon's body off of yours- who knew that a fairly slight, 5'9 man could be so heavy, right?

Eventually, you cave and realize that if you want Brendon to get his head and torso off of your legs (your  _thighs,_ for Christ's sake, he fell asleep with his head against your scars) then you're going to have to wake him up. 

"Brendon," you hiss into his ear, sighing when nothing happens. "Brendon." 

He doesn't even stir. 

_"Brendon,"_ you half-whisper, but he remains as still as a rock. You sigh in frustration; his stupid weight made your legs fall asleep and now you have to deal with the weird tingly sensation while he's still on you. 

"Brendon, your fans are here," you hiss as loudly into your ear as you dare- you're not sure if your parents are back or not and you don't especially want to wake them.

Brendon responds immediately and panics enough that it's hilarious. 

"What? Where? How many?" he asks groggily, trying to pick himself up and accidentally putting a hand right on top of the scars on the lowest part of your thigh- technically the knee, really, now that you think about it.

You freeze. 

Brendon doesn't. He just looks at you, obviously waiting for your response. 

"I was just joking," you finally manage to say after a long pause when you realize that, as weird as it is, Brendon did  _not_ react to touching your scars. He must've not felt them, you think, or else he's just too asleep to process that- never mind he's actually looking surprisingly alert for someone who says he can't function without coffee. 

Brendon sighs in relief, then looks around and seems to realize exactly what position he's currently in. "How the fuck did I fall asleep like this?" 

You shrug. "I don't know," you lie even though you're pretty sure you do- he must've fallen asleep while singing to you and you pushed him partway off the bed in your sleep. 

Brendon's brow furrows and he looks over at you. "You don't remember anything from last night?"

You hesitate. "Nope." 

"Really?" he doesn't seem all that convinced, so you make your expression as plausible as possible; the less Brendon knows you remember about last night, the better- it'll give you more time to puzzle through just why the  _hell_ he chose that song to sing you to sleep with.  _  
_

"I remember a few bits and pieces, but it's pretty blurry," you tell him, looking straight at him and giving a dismissive shrug. 

Brendon's eyes close for a second and you're not sure if he looks disappointed or relieved- you're not actually sure if he's sure, either, from the way his mouth pinches. 

"Why?" you ask innocently. "Did you do something weird?"

Brendon huffs a laugh. "No, of course not. I'm not  _that_ much of a dick." 

You give him a skeptical look.

"I'm not!" he looks strangely offended, which is weird because he normally says worse things as a joke. 

You give him a laugh and poke him in the shoulder, filing away the information for later. "If you say so." 

 

* * *

 

What frustrates you perhaps the most about seeing Brendon all the time is that, instead of slowly forgetting your feelings like a normal person would, you can't stop yourself from liking him even more. His smile, his stupid breathy laugh that he does entirely too much around you, his weird expressions he pulls after every single positive hardcore Thursday on vine, his voice whenever he bursts into song (which is a  _lot)_...  _Everything_ about him makes you like him, and it's irritating because with every single day it gets harder to act normal.

But you're used to faking your feelings, or rather, faking a lack of them, so you keep your smiles carefully positioned and your laughs small and make sure to never look him in the eye- because if you do, it's always hard to look away, and you're afraid Brendon's going to catch that and then it's going to be all over.

Everything's carefully hidden nowadays, really- your thoughts, your feelings, your pain that manifests itself in various different ways that you make sure to never let Brendon see. Brendon, for his part, does a surprisingly good job of taking care of you- at least, as good a job as you let him do- which, to be fair, isn't very good- and makes sure you eat whenever he comes over, asks you if you've gotten enough sleep, and collects pencil sharpeners and razors whenever he finds them. 

"You know I actually do need one for shaving," you tell him one day as he confiscates a broken pencil sharpener. "There's only so much you can do, you know that, right?"

Brendon turns around and you instantly regret what you said. "Of course I know," he says quietly. "But I have to do my best, (y/n)."

His gaze sharpens, becomes more intense and you look away. You don't like this- the serious, intense looks and words that you're certain won't hold up in a few months when you're finally stupid enough to open up and ruin everything. You just want it to go back to when the two of you had fun, where you could joke around without Brendon's worried gaze following you like he's afraid that if he takes his eyes off you for one second, you'll break into a million pieces. 

You wish you could go back to when the two of you were friends, where Brendon didn't have this guilt in his eyes whenever he looks at you- it's  _not_ his fault, it's only ever been yours but Brendon won't stop blaming himself, even if he never says anything about it- but you know that that can never happen anymore. It's just going to be a downward spiral where he'll gradually grow apart from you and entirely forget about you.

Which presents something else you hadn't thought about for  _weeks-_ that girl he'd said he liked a while ago, why has he never brought her up again? Did he stop liking her, maybe? _Or,_ your brain whispers,  _maybe you're no longer_   _important enough in his life to even talk about the people he likes._

You have a bad feeling it's the latter, really. Despite the fact that Brendon's still sticking around, seems the same as ever, and seems just as fine with watching movies and eating pizza as he was before, you still think so. Speaking of pizza...

"Pizza?" you ask as casually as you can, albeit slightly weakly.

Brendon shrugs. "Sure, as long as you have beer."

You give him a look.

"What? I have the day off, I can enjoy myself a little bit!" 

"You're being a bad influence," you tell him, putting your best snooty voice on. Brendon just laughs, that sort of laugh when you throw your head back and  _what the hell,_ a laugh shouldn't make you _that_ happy. 

"I know, I might actually have you doing drugs within the year if I keep this up," he tells you after he finishes laughing, giving you a grin that morphs into a smirk. 

"Mhm, sure you will," you deadpan as calmly as possible and thank God when your voice doesn't come out strained. 

He looks offended. "You doubt me? Rude." 

You punch him lightly. "Shut up." 

He laughs. "But then I can't order the pizza." 

You glare at him and he giggles at your expression, reaching behind you to pick up his phone. "The usual?" he asks as he unlocks his phone and starts dialing the number.

"Yeah." 

He nods, holding the phone to his ear and bouncing lightly; you leave to set up the movie- it's Transformers today, apparently, according to Brendon, so you pick up the disc from the table and slide it in. 

"Hurry up," you call as the main screen starts its cycle. You hear a muted scoff and can practically  _hear_ the eye roll. 

A minute later you hear footsteps and jump when Brendon suddenly appears and plops down on the couch next to you without warning. 

"What the hell, Brendon?" 

He grins, leaning against you unexpectedly and you try not to jump again. "Start the movie." 

You give him a slightly shaky eye roll and press play, trying to relax when Brendon leans his head against your shoulder and not entirely succeeding.

"What are you _doing,_ Brendon?"

He gives you a puppy dog expression. "Come on, your house is cold."

"We have blankets."

"But you're warm, too."

You fight off the rising blush. "Are you drunk?"

Brendon scoffs, looking offended. "No! Maybe a little tipsy, that's all."

You sigh. "Of course you have to be a handsy drunk."

"Not drunk,  _tipsy."_

"Keep telling yourself that," you mutter, telling yourself the red tint to your cheeks is just because you're not used to people touching you, not because it's Brendon doing it. 

You sigh, turning your attention back to the screen.  _Yeah, good luck convincing yourself that._

 

* * *

 

By the time the movie ends and the credits are rolling, Brendon is mostly asleep, his head buried in your neck and his arms half-way around you. 

You're honestly surprised Brendon didn't notice how fast your pulse was when he put his head on your shoulder; you suppose Brendon must've been too drunk  _(tipsy,_ he kept protesting whenever you tried to tell him so) to realize it. Or he didn't care. Maybe he thought it was just because you're not used to people touching you? 

Yeah, that's probably what it was. Because you're certain Brendon would've called you out if he thought otherwise. 

But enough thinking. You need to wake him up; no way are you letting him sleep on your shoulder all night. You shake him as violently as you can manage, knowing not to waste time trying gentler techniques after the last time he fell asleep on you and hiss, "Wake up," loudly into his ear.

He jerks, a little sluggishly- he must've not managed to sleep off the alcohol yet. "Is it 7 yet?" he mumbles tiredly.

"No, it's 11, at  _night."_

"Too early, let me go back to sleep."

"You're on top of me, I'm not letting you go back to sleep."

Brendon groans in defeat and slowly sits up, running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair and yawning. "How much of the movie did I miss?"

"Just the last part," you answer, smirking when he groans again. 

"Of course I have to miss the good part," he complains, looking upset enough that you start laughing again, not seeing how his eyebrows furrow briefly before he smiles softly. 

"Do you want to stay?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself and look away when Brendon's eyes widen.

"What?" 

"Just, you know, cause it's late and you still seem kind of drunk."

_"Tipsy,"_ he protests, hesitating before he continues. "I mean, if your parents are okay with it?"

"They were fine with my boyfriend staying the night," you answer and wince.  _"Not_ that you're my boyfriend, of course, just that you're a guy and..." you trail off, not seeing the way Brendon's expression becomes unreadable. "They'll be fine with it." you stand up, untangling yourself from Brendon as you do so. "Do you need a blanket?"

Brendon looks at you, confused. "Why would I need...?"

"Aren't you going to get cold on the couch?"

Brendon stiffens, then looks away and you think it could just be you but his ears turn pink. "Right. O-of course," he stammers, drumming his fingers against his thighs. "Yeah, I could use a blanket."

You give him a confused glance, not sure where else he thought he was going to sle- 

Oh. 

Wait, what?

"Give me a second, I'll go get that blanket," you say quickly and half-run away from Brendon.

_Shut up shut up shut up,_ you think to yourself once you're a safe distance from him.  _He's drunk, he slipped up. He probably thought he was going to sleep on the floor or in your guest room or something- not his fault he doesn't know you don't have one. He was_ not  _thinking he was going to sleep with you, idiot. Now get the fucking blanket and let him go to sleep in peace._

You straighten, move your hands from where they'd been against your eyes, and pick up a blanket from the pile in your closet, take a deep breath, and go back into the room with Brendon.

"Here," you say in as carefully expressionless of a tone as possible, ignoring the way his expression seems to drop just a little bit at your tone, and toss it at him. Of course, he fumbles to catch it and ends up with it on the floor- he's definitely still at least tipsy- but he finally manages to pick it up and unfold it. 

"Night, (y/n)," he tells you as soon as he's settled, giving you a soft smile.

"G'night, Brendon." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this is probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written, and seeing as how this chapter was still a bit sad (I think? I mean, I'm writing it so my opinion isn't exactly solid) that's kind of saying something about how sad my writing life is. Anyways, hope you enjoyed it, sorry for the long delay, and please tell me what you thought about it!


	8. The Light Behind Your Eyes

You gradually ease your way into consciousness, still tired and comfortable enough that you don't try to force yourself to wake up. You can faintly register sounds around you; the AC, for instance, the occasional creak of wood, and footsteps.

Wait... footsteps?

But it should be around 6 or 7 in the morning and it's not like your parents to be up this early. But you don't have anyone els-

Oh. Right. 

Brendon. 

You force your eyes open blearily and sit up. "Brendon?" you half-croak, wincing at your voice. There's a pause, then you hear footsteps and a rumpled-looking Brendon peeks his head around your doorway.

"Yeah?" he asks tiredly, his voice cracking halfway through.

"Um..." you have no idea what to say. Brendon literally just spent the night at your house and  _yes,_ you are _very_ aware this is a friends-only kinda thing but  _still,_ it's kind of weird because, well, he's more than just a friend to you. 

"Do you want coffee?" he asks after you just stare blankly at him for a long second. 

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great," you say quickly, grateful he gave you an out- he probably just thinks you're super tired. 

Once he turns around and goes off, presumably to the kitchen, you get out of bed and shut the door. You're still in last night's clothes, which you don't even get because they happened to be a pair of jeans and a tank (how the heck do you even sleep in jeans?), but somehow you were tired enough to fall asleep in them. 

You pull them off, wincing as you see the deep indents they left in your hipbones (great, more marks, just what you need). You don't particularly want to wear another pair of jeans because that's going to hurt, but you don't have much of a choice; all your yoga pants are dirty and there's no way in hell you're going to wear shorts in front of Brendon, even if you have one pair that comes about mid-thigh and hides most of your scars (there's only a scattered few around the knee area). 

You pull out the only clean pair of pants you have and examine it critically, sighing. _Great._ It's that pair of skinny jeans that you technically grew out of last year; there's no way you're going to be able to get into it, let alone manage to wear it with the already deep indents the last pair of jeans left. 

So that means...Your only remaining choice is a skirt (yeah, likely) or shorts. 

Maybe Brendon won't mind?

_Are you an idiot? Of course he'll mind. He tried to stop you from cutting for a reason, he obviously thinks the cuts are disgusting._

But, that doesn't mean he'll have to look at them, right? He can just not look down until he leaves.

_Are you crazy? He'll leave, all right. He's not going to come back if you do this, you idiot._

Well, it's this or my underwear. 

_Are you really sure you can't get into those pants?_

You examine your jeans again. Yep, no way you're going to fit those.

_It's because you're such a fat-ass. You fucking went and gained weight, and now he's probably going to leave._

You sigh. You don't exactly have any other choice, now do you? 

"Hey, (y/n), coffee's ready!" Brendon calls from the kitchen, interrupting your thoughts as you try not to curse. Well, you guess your time's up. 

You grab the shorts and pull them on, hastily change your shirt into another long-sleeved shirt, and try not to wince at the combination of shorts and long sleeves. Well, you already have half of your scarred thighs in view, you doubt you could really make it much worse. 

"Coming!" you yell, pulling the door open and starting down the hallway. 

"It's about time," Brendon tells you as you enter the kitchen, not even glancing down to see what you're wearing. "Here, I don't know how you like your coffee so I just prepared it black." 

You take it and put the appropriate amount of sugar in, cradling it and taking a sip. Brendon still hasn't seemed to see what you're wearing, which is weird, despite how you are _totally_ okay with that. For real, if he just never notices, you'll be fine. _More_ than fine, actually. 

"How'd you sleep?" you ask, taking another sip of your drink. 

"Okay, I guess," Brendon responds, stirring his coffee. "Probably would've been better if you were there with me, though." he gives you a smirk, which widens into a grin when you splutter. 

"Brendon!" you can't even deny it; you're completely red. "What the fuck?"

He circles his hips, stepping closer to you and looking smug as you turn even redder. "Aw, come on, don't be like that. It would've been fun."

"We're  _friends,_ Brendon, what the fuck?" you try as a last resort- he's just joking, you know that, but at the same time you can't stop blushing and you know you could give the game away if he keeps trying this. 

Brendon stiffens noticeably and steps back, his smirk falling away. "I, um, I shouldn't have said that. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable." 

You kind of regret saying that, now; he looks like a kicked puppy and all you wanted was for him to back off, not look horrified and guilty like he'd just killed his grandma. Really, you hadn't minded it that much- although that was actually kind of the problem, seeing as in fact you hadn't really minded at all. 

"It's fine," you mumble, looking down at your bare thighs. It feels weird, seeing skin outside of a bathroom or bedroom, and you're not sure you want to get used to that feeling. You glance back up at Brendon cautiously, in case he followed your gaze- and freeze. He's looking down, too, and you're fairly certain he's looking exactly where you were. 

There's a moment's silence; a shadow crosses Brendon's face but he doesn't say anything. When he finally looks back up, his expression is neutral, as is his tone when he speaks. "Are your parents here?" 

And you don't know why he's asking that; if he's trying to bring some semblance of normalcy back to the atmosphere, or if he's asking because he doesn't want your parents to see your scars (you agree with him there, if that's the case, to be honest), but you answer as casually as you can. 

"Yeah, I think so. They won't be up for a couple hours though, if I know them."

Brendon nods. "Do you wanna go do something, then? It'd be nice to go walk around or something."

You gape blankly at him. Is he blind? Did he not see your legs after all?

"Uh, Brendon..."

"Yeah?" he looks so unaffected you realize he must've not seen, after all (but that doesn't make sense because what other reason would he have had for that weird guilty expression?), or else he'd realize exactly why you don't want to go. But, you don't really want to tell him, either, because then he'd actually see and that's not something you want anyone to look at, much less him. 

"I don't know if you've seen what I'm wearing, but..."

Brendon shrugs. "I agree, long sleeves aren't the best for the weather, but it's not that hot out today, you should be fine."

_What._

What the hell? Has he had memory loss that goes back a couple weeks?

"Brendon," you start slowly, "You  _do_ remember what I happen to have all over my body, right?"

"That's not something I'd forget," he responds quietly, looking back down. You try not to get sick because just knowing he's looking at them makes you want to cut more. "I don't see why it should dictate what you wear, though," he finishes, cutting through your thoughts. 

"Are you crazy?" you sputter. "You don't see  _why?_ Have you even _seen_ them? Who the hell would ever want to look at those things?"

Brendon lifts a shoulder. "I don't think scars are a shameful thing, and I don't see why you should be ashamed to carry them."

"Maybe because I  _put them there myself?"_ you half hiss, lowering your tone in case you wake your parents up. 

Brendon flinches at the last part of your sentence as if you slapped him. "Yes, and you shouldn't have, but just because you have them doesn't mean you should be afraid to go out in public anymore." he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes; when he opens them again there's an almost unreadable cross between determination and desperation in them. "Just because you've made mistakes doesn't mean _you're_ a mistake, or that you should be afraid of wearing them. You're  _not_ your failures." 

You smile bitterly. Trust the man who knows less than half of all the stuff you've done to say that. "Trust me, if you knew me like you think you do, you wouldn't say that."

"Oh?" Brendon raises an eyebrow challengingly. "I don't know you?" 

You shift to your other foot. "No?" You try to state it, but somehow it just comes out as a question. 

"I don't think you have the right to tell me that when you don't even know yourself," he retorts levelly, setting his coffee cup on the counter and stepping closer to you. 

 _"I_ don't know myself?" you ask incredulously, too surprised to even get mad. "I  _am_ myself. I'm pretty sure I know myself better than anybody."

"Except you don't see yourself how other people see you. You only see yourself in mirrors, when you're looking for faults in yourself," Brendon retorts. "I'm not you, so I'm not saying I know exactly what's going on in your head-

You interrupt with a caustic laugh. "Then why even bother? I mean, you never even fucking asked me why I cut, why should you care about this?"

"I was  _waiting_ for you, that's why!" Brendon half-yells, lowering his tone awkwardly midway through the sentence but not the intensity in his eyes.   _  
_

You stiffen, confused. "What?" 

"I wanted you to tell me yourself," he admits defeatedly, the previous intensity draining out of his eyes. "I wanted to make you feel safe enough that I wouldn't have to ask. I wanted you to tell me when you were ready, but you never were." 

You stare at Brendon for a long second. If what he says is true...

 _It's not,_ your brain hisses.  _He didn't want to know; this is just his ill-conceived lie to cover that up._

You open your mouth, not even sure what you're going to say;  _you're lying,_ maybe, or  _you can't be telling the truth._ Because he can't... can he? 

"(Y/N)!" your mom's voice echoes through the hallway. 

"Shit," you curse quietly, looking over at Brendon, who looks equally panicked. "My mom's up."

"I kinda got that," Brendon mutters. You fight the urge to pinch him. "Do you want me to leave?" 

"That might be a good idea, I don't want my mom to get the wrong idea," you answer quickly as your mom's footsteps get closer to the kitchen. 

Something flashes across Brendon's face too quickly to read, but he nods, turning around and half-running towards the door. "I'll see you later," he calls quietly, and then he's gone.

 

* * *

 

You don't see him later.

Well, you suppose 'later' is a relative term, so maybe  _later_ just hasn't come for him yet (maybe, the dark part of your mind whispers,  _later_ for him is years from now when you go to see him at a concert for the last time and he locks eyes with you). But, regardless, it's been a full day, you're back in school, and Brendon hasn't called, or texted, and for someone who always does, it's a bit unusual. 

But you know, maybe he's just tired, or he forgot, or he broke his phone. 

You snort. _Likely._  

You heave your backpack up and sling it over one shoulder, heading outside so you can get to another building for your next class. Out of the corner of your eye, you see an all too familiar figure and try not to curse, quickening your pace and hoping he won't see you.

The 'he' being your ex, Kyle, of course. He'd been keeping his distance since Brendon came back, but from the way he suddenly starts heading in your direction... well, let's just say you're pretty sure he isn't going to keep away this time. 

"Why, hello there, (y/n)," he leers once he's gotten within speaking distance of you. He looks angrier than usual; something must've set him off because he looks like he might murder someone  _(you,_ your brain supplies, very helpfully). "Did you miss me?" _  
_

You ignore the blatant Sherlock reference there and focus on him instead. His hands are clenched, he's closer to you than is the social norm for two enemies, and he's obviously staring you down. None of those signs are good on their own; put them together and you have a bad feeling you're not going to make it to your next class. Or anyone after that, either. 

"Miss you?" you snort, knowing he's going to beat you up anyway and not feeling like bothering with trying to please him. "Please. No one could ever miss you." 

He smiles, or rather, bares his teeth at you. "Is that how you want to play it then?" 

Before you can respond, he moves, and you grit your teeth grimly. This is going to be a long day.

 

* * *

 

By the time he finishes with you, you're too bruised and bloody to even move beyond a slow crawl. From the aching in your ribs whenever you breathe, he managed to break or at least bruise several ribs, and as you also can't see very well out of either of your eyes, your nose is bleeding, and your skin is littered with bruises, you're feeling pretty peachy. 

You manage to crawl over to the entrance to your school sometime between what you think is the second to last and last period, and you sit there for awhile under a tree, trying to muster the energy to start what's going to be a long trip home. 

For a second, you think about calling Brendon, but you push the thought away. He's probably busy right now, and besides, he didn't text you. 

That might seem childish, you know; not calling someone because they didn't text you back. But you're just one of those people that's always afraid that if someone doesn't respond it means they don't like you anymore, and, coupled with the fact that you're still not sure why Brendon's still here, well...

So you huddle into as small of a ball as you can form and hope no one else notices you, simply because weakness attracts bad attention and right now you've had all the 'attention' you can take for today.

Minutes pass, and as people begin to exit the school you scrunch yourself further into a ball, ignoring the pain as best you can and gritting your teeth in order to not cry out. Kyle's not been this cruel in- well, ever, really. You have no idea what happened to make him that pissed but whatever it was, you don't want it to ever happen again. 

You look up. You intended on doing it in order to check to see how much of the school had already gotten out, but instead you just stare, confused. In lieu of leaving, at least half of the entire school seems to have gathered in a group around something (or someone). You don't hear any cheers or grunts so it's not a fight, but if it's not that, then what is it?

"Guys, I'm looking for someone. Do you know anyone by the name of (y/n)?" 

_What?_

_Brendon's_ the one in the center of the crowd? But why the hell would he be here?

You hear a cold snort and then Kyle's voice pipes up, "What do you want with a whore like her?"

"What did you do to her?" Brendon's tone is cold and angry, angrier than you've ever heard him. You see the people in the crowd start to step back, forming a ring as a murmur of  _fight, fight_ begins to sound. 

"None of your business," Kyle sneers back. "But I made sure she won't be able to walk any time soon." 

You can glimpse just enough of Brendon to see his jaw clench and you know what's going to come next. 

Brendon kicks Kyle in the crotch, hard, shoves him onto the ground, gives him one more kick, and breaks out of the ring. He looks around the school front, just managing to miss you- ironic, isn't it, how the one person you would've been fine with finding you being the one person to not see you. 

You try to move, or say something, but your body hurts too much to move and this weird combination of pain and uncertainty stays your vocal chords, rendering you powerless. 

He turns back around to the crowd. "Do any of you know where she is?"

One by one, they shake their heads and you see Brendon visibly grow more and more frustrated. "God fucking damn it, where is she?" 

The crowd sort of shrugs and breaks up, wandering off. You see someone help Kyle up and walk him home and sigh in relief. 

Brendon stands still, looking frustrated and pissed off and a bit worried, too. You try to move, but your body's stiffened up and you're rendered immobile which, well. It's just great. 

Not.

Brendon lets out a sigh and looks around one final time- except this time, his gaze crosses over you. He stiffens, looks back over at you, and his eyes widen in shock.

"(Y/N)!" 

He runs over and kneels down next to you. "Why didn't you say anything or come over?"

"I can't move," you force out through gritted teeth. "Hurts too much." 

"Where?"

"Honestly?" You try to laugh but it turns into a pained grimace. "Everywhere. I think he broke a couple ribs and he left bruises everywhere. Not to mention my face." 

"Can I see?"

"My face? I'd say it's pretty open to view."

Brendon gives you a look. "Your ribs, doofus." 

"No way." you are  _not_ letting him see exactly what you've been doing whenever he's not in your house. There's _absolutely no way_ that's happening. 

"I need to see how bad it is," he insists.

"Bad enough." 

"(Y/N), let me see. I'm not going to lift your shirt higher than your ribs, I'm not that much of a dick." 

"No." He doesn't need to see any of this; not your scars, not your bruised (broken?) ribs. He  _doesn't._

"You don't believe me?" 

"It's not about you," you mutter. Brendon blinks, looks confused for a second, and then sighs. 

"If this is about your scars, I don't give a flying fuck about them." 

_Sure you don't._

Besides, it isn't about scars- if that's all they were, you wouldn't be this resistant because, well, let's face it, he's already seen plenty of your scars and if those hadn't driven him off, more scars wouldn't. 

But they're  _not_ just scars. They're scabs, and they're bloody pink lines, raised, puckered things that you hate more than anything. 

"They're not just scars," you admit. 

There's a second of silence. Then Brendon says quietly, "I need to look at your ribs." 

You look away, hesitate, and nod. Brendon inhales, a bit louder than usual, and lifts your shirt up slowly, all the way until your bra is just barely showing. 

"I think you're lucky, it doesn't look like anything's broken," he says finally. "I doubt you're going to agree to going to a hospital so I'm going to have to take you to my house and bandage you up there."

"You have a house?" you ask, a bit dumbly- what did you expect, him to be living in a hotel this entire time? 

Brendon nods, pulling your shirt back down. "Yeah, 'course. Hang on, I'm gonna carry you to my car." You nod, biting your lip as Brendon straightens, bending back down and hoisting you up in his arms. 

"Sorry," he says apologetically when you let out a small half-whimper of pain. "Just hang on."

Within a few more steps, he's reached the passenger seat of his car and lets you down, opening the door for you and half picking you up again to help you in. Once you're fully in, he closes the door and climbs in his own side, starting up the car and starting towards his house. 

 

* * *

 

You're not really sure when, exactly, you reach Brendon's house. All you know is that about the time you pass out from exhaustion and pain, the car stops and a few seconds later, you're airborne, only being put down once- you guess so he can open the door- before you're inside and on the couch. 

There's a sort of pause, and then you hear Brendon again, saying something about bandages and how it's gonna hurt, and then there's pain, all around your ribs and now it hurts even more than it did when Kyle first did it. You vaguely register crying out, then there's Brendon's voice trying (unsuccessfully) to calm you down, and then the pain slowly diminishes and you fall back asleep to what you think might be Brendon's voice.

 

* * *

 

When you wake up again, you're on a couch in what you assume to be Brendon's house. From what you can tell, you're all alone, with your ribs bandaged (under your shirt this time). 

"Brendon?" 

There's a second of silence as your voice echoes around the house, then footsteps and Brendon appears around a doorway. 

"Good, you're up." 

"How long have I been asleep?" 

Brendon considers for a second. "Um, maybe like 16 hours or so, it's like 10 in the morning." 

You gape at him. "My parents," you say eventually, "They'll be freaking."

"I contacted them, told them I was taking care of you. They didn't seem to care." 

You smile bitterly. "Of course they didn't."

Brendon shifts a bit awkwardly. "Um, how are you feeling today?"

You shrug, trying to calculate exactly how much better you are. "It doesn't hurt as much to breathe, I guess." 

Brendon laughs a little bit. "That's always good." He looks over you, not critically, just looking. "You want breakfast?"

You open your mouth to respond, but your stomach decides to reply for you, sending out a loud growl that makes you turn pink. 

"I guess that's a yes," Brendon laughs, turning around and starting towards what you guess is his kitchen. "Just wait there, I'll bring you something."

You call back a 'k' and sit back against the couch. While you wait, you look around to try to keep yourself occupied, but you don't really succeed, mostly because there's almost nothing to look at, just the couch, a TV, a few chairs, and a single painting. It's obvious Brendon isn't exactly big on anything more than bare necessities.

"Hey, I just had cereal. I hope that's okay."

"Yeah, it's fine," you respond, making a grab for the bowl as Brendon nears you. 

"So, what do you wanna do today?" Brendon asks after a few minutes of silence. 

"I dunno, there's not really anything I can do," you motion to your ribs, "not with these things." 

"Movie then?" 

"Do you even have movies here? Isn't your main house in like Vegas or something?"

Brendon nods. "Yeah, but I  _do_ have Netflix here, so we at least have good TV shows. Not sure about the movies, though."

You laugh. "Yeah, we can just like watch Supernatural or something." 

"I don't think I've ever watched that, is it good?"

"Yeah, there's..." you hesitate. "A lot of death, and tears, and everything gets worse every season. There's no hope for survival, ever."

Brendon grins. "Sounds good." 

 

* * *

 

Of course, because Brendon apparently can't go even an episode without doing  _something,_ within four episodes you're carefully tucked under his arm. Soon after that, you're leaning on his shoulder, and then you start drifting off again- your body must want time to  _repair itself_ or some shit like that. Brendon seems to realize you're falling asleep because he moves you from where you were leaning against his shoulder and puts you (face-up, of course) on his lap. 

"Sleep well," he murmurs, moving your hair out of your eyes.

The last things you hear are Brendon's voice and a soft melody. 

 _"If I could be with you tonight_  
_I would sing you to sleep_  
_Never let them take the light behind your eyes_  
_I failed and lost this fight_  
_Never fade in the dark_  
_Just remember you will always burn as bright..."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really sure what to say about this one. It's sort of a filler chapter, nothing huge happened, so um, hope you liked it I guess?


	9. Welcome To The Black Parade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd first like to say that there are major trigger warnings in here. If ANYTHING about suicide triggers you, whether it be thoughts, mentions of suicide attempts, or an actual attempt, do not read this chapter. Also, the usual trigger warnings for self-harm apply.

Consciousness comes slowly, gradually- mostly, you think, because you're just so  _warm-_ you're never warm anymore, after all, and you think you like the sensation. 

You tighten your grip on your pillow, shifting around to try and find a comfortable place. It's surprisingly tough-feeling in some places, almost to the point of being sharp and bony, but you're tired and comfortable and  _content_ enough that it doesn't matter. 

Well, it doesn't matter until you accidentally jab your elbow into your pillow and it moves. 

Your eyes snap open and you stiffen, panicked, as you look around and realize one tiny, mildly horrifying fact: you're currently using Brendon as a pillow. You try to pull free and get off of him, but then you're pulled back into his chest.

Great. Brendon is apparently using  _you_ as a pillow, too. 

"Brendon, wake up," you hiss loudly into ear- or try. You can't really move because Brendon's not letting you out of his grip, even a little bit.  _"Brendon!_ Move!" 

"No," he mumbles, holding you tighter. "Too comf'ble." 

"Brendon. Get off me." 

"Why?" he whines sleepily, not opening his eyes. 

"It's almost afternoon, I need to get up." 

"No."

"Let me up, Brendon."

"No." 

You sigh, vainly struggling against his grip- for someone that's half-asleep, he sure has a strong hold. "Brendon, you know you're going to have to let me go eventually." 

"No." 

 _Of course Brendon would be the one that's extremely grumpy when he's half-asleep,_ you think with another sigh. 

"Yeah, you're going to. You actually have a job, you know."

"Doesn't matter," he mumbles, "I'm com'fble." 

You elbow him in the ribs as best you can, wriggling partway out of his grip when he loosens it. "Let me go, Brendon. We both need to get up." 

There's silence, then Brendon slowly opens one eye. "Do I have to?" he whines. 

"Yes." 

He loosens his hold around you and you scoot off of him as fast as you can, ignoring the way the movement makes your ribs feel like they're on fire. Then you stand up and watch Brendon reorient himself.

"Want me to make coffee?"

Brendon goes to nod, but stops, getting off the couch too. "No, I'll do it. I like making my own coffee, and you'd have no idea where my stuff is anyway." 

"What, you don't trust me?"

"Not to make my coffee, I don't," he laughs, bumping you with his shoulder as he passes you. You give him a mock-offended look.

"What? Are you implying I'm bad at making coffee?"

"Yup!"

"You've never even had my coffee!" 

He laughs again, "I still don't trust you." 

"Fine," you huff, "then at least you can make me some, too."

"Sure thing." he disappears into the kitchen, so you start cleaning up the dishes the two of you had left on the floor and sofa last night, bringing them to the kitchen and returning to continue straightening the room back up. By the time you're done, Brendon's finished making your coffee- surprisingly enough, he even remembers the way you like to drink it. 

"So, what do you want to do today?"

You laugh a bit bitterly and motion to your, still throbbing painfully, ribs. "Not really much I can do, now is there?"

Brendon smiles a bit ruefully. "Yeah, I guess not. We can finish watching the first season of Supernatural, I guess."

"Don't you have a job to do?" you raise an eyebrow, watching Brendon duck his head a bit. 

"I mean, yeah, but it's not like I have any inspiration anyways. And I don't want to leave you alone here, who knows what crazy psycho might decide to show up?" 

"Someone's been watching too many horror movies," you tell him with a laugh. 

"Guilty as charged." He considers for a moment, then grins. "Hey, I know! I'll invite one of my friends to come over!"

You fight the urge to back up, both emotionally and physically. There are many reasons you don't want to talk to Brendon's friends, especially when you're not even sure if he considers you one. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Yeah, 'course. You'll love her," he assures you; you try not to flinch at the word 'her'. "Honest, (y/n), you'll love her. I already love her to death, she's brilliant." 

You look away. Brendon's words from his periscope all those months ago ring in your ears, colliding with his last sentence. 

 _Yeah,_ you scoff,  _friend. That's all she is._

You smile. "Okay, sure." 

 

* * *

 

Of course- of fucking  _course_ \- Brendon's 'friend' lives less than a few hours away; by the time you and Brendon had finished four more episodes of Supernatural, there's a ring on the doorbell and then she's there. 

You gulp and wish you could sink into oblivion the moment you see her. She's  _beautiful-_ light brown, wavy hair, brown eyes, a perfect figure and perfect face- perfect  _everything._ She's flawless. 

"Hey, Sarah," Brendon greets with a grin, giving her a hug. "I'd like to introduce you to (y/n). She's the one I told you about."

You make your face look as friendly as possible and endeavor not to show what you're thinking (he told Sarah about you? What the fuck did he say? Did he go on about how imperfect you are compared to her? How flawed you are against Sarah?).

Sarah, for her part, is the epitome of friendliness, smiling, asking you careful, impersonal questions (Brendon must've told her a  _lot_ about you), maintaining the perfect distance and just generally being far, far better than you at this whole socializing business. 

"Hey, Sarah, we were watching this show called Supernatural before you came in, want to watch it with us?"

"Sure," she agrees easily. "I've heard about it, is it good?"

"Yeah, it's really good. We're like three quarters of the way through season one, do you want us to start at the beginning?"

"No, it's fine, I can pick it up as we go along." 

They don't ask your opinion or even _look_ at you the entire way through, stuck in their own little world and you've never felt like such a third wheel in your life. 

 _Friends? Just friends, Brendon? Yeah, right._ It's no secret that Brendon's not exactly a blushing virgin; some would call him a fuckboy, and they'd probably be right. He flirts with literally anyone- even guys, sometimes, you've heard- except, of course, you.

Oh, but he'll flirt with Sarah.

"Brendon, what are you doing?"

He grins, leaning towards Sarah as you look away, torn between wanting to vomit and wanting to cry- or cut. That'd be nice, too. "What do you think I'm doing?"

"Brendon." she sounds exasperated- not annoyed, just exasperated. "We've been over this already. Stop it."

"That's not what you said last night." 

_"Brendon."_

He grins. "Sorry, sorry." 

The unidentifiable feeling inside your chest increases- it's not jealousy, you know that much. No, jealousy is something spawned when you think you have a right over someone and then they get taken from you, however temporarily. What you're feeling right now is something different, something small and fragile because you  _know_ you have no right over Brendon, and that him being with Sarah would be far better for him than being with you would be. 

It's something high and tight and painful, deep in your chest, that makes your eyesight blurry and your stomach churn with the knowledge that you're not good enough, you'll never be good enough for someone like Brendon.

Sarah, on the other hand...

You stand up, force yourself to keep from shaking, and tell yourself your eyesight is  _not_ fogging up. "I need to go to the bathroom," you tell Brendon, keeping your voice as even as you can and forcing yourself to look him in the eye. 

Brendon stiffens instantly, concern flaring up. "What's wrong?"

"Does something have to be wrong for me to need to go to the bathroom?" you retort.

He shifts a bit nervously; Sarah glances between you and him and you wonder just how much Brendon's told her. "Well, no..." 

You roll your eyes and turn your back, starting towards where you hope is the bathroom; Brendon doesn't protest or point you in a different direction, so you suppose you went the right way.

The moment you find it and lock the door shut, you allow yourself to break and let your weak veneer of okay-ness shatter.  _  
_

_You're never good enough._

_How could you even think you were?_ _She's perfect, and you're... you._

Your hands itch for a razor, a knife,  _anything;_ your wrists, your thighs, your sides call for blood. But the only thing you see is Brendon's razor and you'd have to dismantle it in order to use it- he'd notice, you know he would, and besides, he's probably going to want to see how your ribs are healing and you doubt he's going to conveniently pass over a new gash in your skin. 

But you need to do  _something,_ and crying's not an option. They'll both notice that, you know that for certain, and he's going to get concerned if you stay in here for longer than five minutes. 

Well... he'll probably be wrapped up in Sarah, after all. You can probably let yourself cry just this once and he won't notice. Or care. 

So you do. You've kept up appearances for long enough- Brendon had been subtly flirting with Sarah for the past two or so episodes, and that was the last straw. You just couldn't force yourself to watch that anymore; it served as nothing but a stark, painful reminder of just how imperfect you are compared to other people- compared to Sarah. 

 _See?_ That voice inside your head taunts as silent sobs begin to wrack your body.  _I told you he'd never want you in the end, now look where you are. You should just kill yourself, save Brendon the trouble of having to leave you himself._

You look down at your hands, blinking away tears as best you can. Maybe that voice is right. Maybe you'd be better off dead. 

"(Y/N)? Are you okay?"

 _Of course not,_ your brain snaps. 

"Yeah, fine, just give me a sec," you answer him in as steady a voice as you can manage. You feel strangely gratified when it comes out almost perfectly calm; it's a testament to how good your acting skills have gotten, you guess.

"Sarah left, is that's what you're worried about," Brendon says through the door. You ignore the relief that surges through you at his words, despite the fact that, at the same time, you're worried about why, exactly, she left. Did she want to leave after meeting someone as terrible as you? Did Brendon want her to leave?

Not likely, but still. 

"No, that's- I was fine with her being here." You're lying through your teeth, and you're fairly certain Brendon can tell.

"Right." Yep, he could tell. "Well, when you're finished, come back, I want to check on your ribs." 

 _Also known as 'I want to see if you were cutting,'_ you think, a tad bitterly. Which you shouldn't be, because you should be happy he actually wants to make sure you're okay.

 _Well._ That you haven't been cutting. Because you can be not-fine and clean as a knife blade. 

"Okay," you answer back, wiping away the traces of the few tears you let escape. Brendon's footsteps sound, getting fainter as he walks away and you slowly relax as the distance between the two of you increases. The moment you can't hear him anymore, you look in the mirror, wince, and look away. It's pretty obvious you were crying, which is more than a bit annoying- it takes what seems like  _hours_ for the last traces of redness to fade from your face on a good day, and you don't even have ten minutes. 

Maybe you can say you got something in your eye? Or that you had trouble with your contacts? 

 _Like he'd believe that,_ your brain scoffs.

But what else could you possibly say? The truth? There's absolutely no way you're  _ever_ telling him that. 

You carefully brush off any traces of tears off your face and look back in the mirror. Your face is still red, but it's not as bad as it was. You could possibly tell him you were just crying from the pain in your ribs, and he'd most likely let you off. 

 _Yeah._ You fix your hair a bit. _That's what you're going to do._

 

* * *

 

"What happened?" Brendon looks as concerned as ever- like he hadn't just spent more than an hour completely ignoring you and flirting with another woman. 

Not that you blame him, and not that you need his attention 24/7, of course. 

"Huh?" 

"Your face," Brendon states slowly, "You've been crying. Why?"

 _Your ribs,_ your head reminds you harshly.  _You were crying because of your ribs._

"The- the pain," you stammer out, wincing inwardly when Brendon's eyebrow raises skeptically. "In my ribs, that is. I bumped against the counter in the bathroom really hard." 

Brendon still looks skeptical, but he motions for you to sit down. "Let me check on it, then. You could've hurt it more if it was that bad of a hit." 

You shift a little bit uneasily; you hate showing people your scars, especially Brendon, and even though he saw them yesterday and didn't say anything, it doesn't matter. You still hate it.

Not to mention that he's seeing more of your body than any man ever has before, scars or no scars. 

"Come on," he says, a bit impatiently. "I told you yesterday, I don't care about any of that, okay? Just let me see."

Reluctantly, you sit down next to him and lean back a bit so he can see. He gently lifts your shirt up, grazing your stomach with his fingertips as you try not to flinch away from his touch. 

"I'm going to need to lift it all the way to unwrap the bandages," Brendon tells you.

You give him a skeptic look. "Right. To 'unwrap the bandages.'" 

"Yes. I don't want to do anything more," he says quickly, "Believe me." 

 _Of course he doesn't, idiot. Why would he_ want  _to?_

You look away briefly, forcing yourself to remain strong. "Fine." 

Brendon opens his mouth, about to say something, but slams it shut and goes back to your ribs, unwrapping them quickly. When he finishes, he presses on them gently, looking up at your to see your reaction. In accordance to your story about hurting them in the bathroom, you react a little bit more than you normally would've; Brendon seems satisfied. 

"I don't think you hurt it too badly, but it might hurt a bit more than it would've otherwise."

You nod, not exactly sure what to say, but thankfully, your phone buzzes and saves you from the potential awkward silence. You go to look at it, confused- is it your parents, maybe?

But you thought Brendon had already told them about what happened...

_Text message from: Kyle_

You stiffen instantly, automatically turning the screen away from Brendon so he can't see. What the hell does your ex want? To threaten you, maybe? Tell you that if you don't do this thing he wants you to, he'll beat you up again? 

"Who is it?"

You ignore Brendon, turning away and unlocking your phone. 

_I need to talk. Meet at your house?_

You scoff. _Need to talk?_  more like _n_ _eed to beat you up._

"(Y/N), who is it?"

"None of your business." 

"I'm making it my business," Brendon retorts. "Who is it?" 

"Not telling you." 

_"Who. Is. It."_

You glare at him. "I don't see why you should care!" 

"Excuse me?" he half-growls. "You don't see why I  _care?_ Haven't I already told you?" 

"You didn't care earlier!" 

Brendon clenches his jaw, starting towards you with narrowed eyes but stopping at the last second and forcibly calming himself down. "Just tell me who it is." 

"Fine," you snap. "It's my ex."

"The one who just beat you up yesterday? You're  _talking_ to him?" 

"One, he's _trying_ to talk to me, and two, I still don't see how it's your business." 

"Of course it's my business!" Brendon snaps. 

"Oh, so you'll get defensive when  _my_ ex tries to talk to me, but then you'll go and flirt with some other girl right in front of me and completely forget I exist?" You're not being fair, you know that; you have no claim on Brendon, but it's like you can't stop from saying what you did. 

"I wasn't-" Brendon stammers, looking horrified and embarrassed at the same time. "I wasn't- flirting with-"

"Right," you cut in with a caustic smile, telling yourself that your vision is _not_ getting blurry, you're just too mad to see correctly. "Sure you weren't. Well, next time you start getting mad at me for talking to some other guy than you, how about you re-evaluate your life choices first. Maybe starting with, I dunno, Ryan and Spencer." 

Your words were calculated to get him mad, and that was exactly what they did. 

"Fuck you," Brendon spits. "Don't  _ever_ bring up Ryan and Spencer like that again. You don't deserve to even talk about them like that. And if I want to flirt with a girl, I'll do it. I don't need your fucking approval." 

You flinch, clenching your hand around your phone and holding it tightly against your chest.

He's right, he always is. You  _don't_ deserve anything, especially not something like that. The only thing you  _deserve_ would be... 

_Death._

_You know, m_ _aybe you should go take care of that, then,_ your mind whispers. 

You turn, blinking back tears, and start towards the door. 

"Wait, (y/n), wait!" Brendon calls, grabbing your arm. "I didn't- I didn't mean that, any of tha-"

"Don't lie," you spit, turning to look at him briefly and pulling your arm out of his grasp. It hurts, it hurts a lot, but right now, you couldn't care less. You  _need_ pain. "Don't lie, Brendon. I'm just glad I realized what you thought of me before it was too late." you turn back around and flee towards the door as fast as your ribs can take. 

"No, wait!" 

"Leave me alone, Brendon," you hiss.

Then you're gone.

 

* * *

 

Well, you suppose Brendon's made it clear, once and for all, what he thinks about you. You were beginning to think he never would. 

That's not true. You were starting to think that maybe, Brendon actually wasn't lying. That maybe, he actually cared.

 _Cared?_ You scoff.  _Yeah, right. Cared about you not ruining his reputation, maybe._

Maybe he actually liked you at first, maybe just a little bit. But, you're pretty sure he must've realized just what a mistake he'd made once he saw you in that bathroom with a razor in your hand. That's where you'd've realized it, after all. 

In a sort of numb haze, you hail a taxi, tell them where you live, and sit back. Your ribs are beginning to throb, enough that the pain makes you dizzy and disoriented, but there's not exactly anything you can do about it. There's absolutely no fucking way you're ever going to a hospital, so you're just out of luck. 

 _Not that it's going to matter, hmm?_ Your brain whispers.  _Seeing as you're, you know, not going to be alive much longer._

But you don't want to be that girl who kills herself the moment the guy she likes says he couldn't care less what happens to her, now do you? 

Not that it'd really matter, though. It's not going to, not to him, not to anyone else, so why bother? Why should dying matter when your life didn't? 

The taxi driver honks his horn, yelling at you to get out, and you comply numbly, opening the car door and standing up, shivering despite yourself and handing the driver money. 

"Ooh, did your boyfriend finally see you for the whore you are?" a voice sneers behind you.

_Kyle._

You ignore him, walking right past him- or, well, you try to. 

"Don't ignore me, bitch. I'm talking to you." 

"Go away, Kyle. I'm not in the mood." 

"Finally going to kill yourself?" he asks. The hopeful gleam in his eye sickens you and gratifies you at the same time; you're finally doing the right thing, that's good. You're finally doing what everyone wants you to do.

"Go away, Kyle," you repeat, unable to muster anything up but utter numbness. 

Surprisingly, he complies, letting you go and walking away with only a muttered insult and a congratulations for finally doing what everyone wants you to do. For once, you agree with him wholeheartedly. 

You open your front door and walk to the bathroom on autopilot. You still have one last razorblade in there, you know, and you never threw away that tiny stockpile of pills, so you can make sure you're gone. This time, for good. 

You don't hesitate, for once, because you know there's no one that wants you alive- including you. You've been forced into this life, you've been forced to keep it, and you're tired of that. You're tired of never being good enough, being flawed and broken and unwanted.  

So you don't hesitate. You half gag the pills down, one by one, and fumble for the blade, positioning it at your dominant wrist first- if you did it with your good hand first, your bad hand might be too weak to do the second cut, and you can't take that chance. 

You press down deep, deeper than you ever had before, and drag it across your wrist. It hurts, it hurts more than anything you've ever felt and your body wants to rebel, wants you to stop, but you can't. You  _need_ to do this; not just for yourself, for everyone else whose lives would be so much better without you. 

With a hiss, you transfer the blade to your other hand and dig it into your wrist. Your vision is blurring, and you're growing dizzy and faint; you know that you're minutes away from passing out, so you need to hurry. 

Grimacing, you drag it across your other wrist, dropping it with a clatter onto the floor. Your vision is darkening around the edges, and spots are swimming across your eyes. You know you have less than a minute left before you pass out, and eventually, die. 

Your legs give way and you collapse to the ground. There's fear, now, you're afraid of what's going to happen- your death. But you can't go back, now, nor would you even if you could. You need to do this. You  _need_ to. 

 _Welcome to the black parade,_ you think with a bitter smile, and then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you have my friend, Katie, to blame for this chapter, so if the ending of this chapter has left you in tears, you can blame her.  
> Just kidding. Don't get mad at her, that'd be mean. If you have to get mad at someone, get mad at me, not her. I'm the only who wrote this thing, after all... ^.^


	10. Flatline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I have never worked in a hospital, nor have I ever been to an ER and seen the doctors at work. I literally had no idea what I was doing, so for all you medical people reading this, if I've made a mistake, tell me so I can fix it up quickly.

"What is it?" 

The attending doctors finished wheeling in the patient quickly; there was a pause and then the answer came. "It's a suicide attempt, Doctor. Deep cuts to both wrist arteries, and the person that found her said she was next to an empty pill bottle. We'll need to pump the stomach."

The lead doctor nodded, studying the patient quickly, knowing that time was of the essence; any time wasted could easily result in them losing her. "What's her blood type? She's lost a lot of blood, we need to get some back in her or we'll lose her."

"It's..." one of the assistant doctors spoke up; the lead one cursed.

"We don't have any of that blood type!" she half-snapped. The ER had had far too many deaths today; she couldn't let this one go, too. She couldn't. 

"I think we have a bit, but it's not a lot. It's not going to be enough."

"Shit," she cursed again, a bit louder this time, thinking frantically. "Just try to stabilize her first. Pump her stomach out, try to stop the bleeding. We'll go from there." 

The other doctors nodded, following her commands as the lead doctor helped. The bleeding hadn't slowed at all from the time the girl had first gotten in there; if anything, it'd just gotten worse. The girl must've known just how to cut in order to make it as hard as possible to stop the bleeding. 

"Ma'am, the bleeding isn't stopping, the cuts are too wide and too deep. She's going to need stitches." 

The lead doctor nodded, crossing the room and taking the surgical supplies. "Hawthorne, you take the left wrist, I'll take the right. We need to sew them up to stop the bleeding. Walker, go look for blood, we'll need a lot of it if we're going to save her."  The two other doctors nodded, one of them half-running to find the blood, the other taking their own surgical supplies and prepping the patient's left arm for the procedure. The lead doctor did the same, sterilizing the wound as much as she could before she began the stitches.

In less than a few minutes, she was done, as was the other doctor, but the one sent to get the blood was nowhere in sight.

"Dammit, where is he?" The doctor muttered, quietly enough the others couldn't hear her. The patient's condition was steadily worsening; even though they'd managed to get her to vomit up as much of the pills as they could and sewn up the cuts, she'd lost too much blood. She was going into shock, her heartrate alternating between asystole and ventricular fibrillation, which was never good. Even if she managed to pull through without the blood (which was highly doubtful), there was a high probability she'd become comatose, and from there probably never wake up. 

"Dammit," she muttered again. She couldn't lose another patient. She'd lost too many today, already, and she would not allow this girl to die, too. 

"Doctor!" 

Her head snapped around, her eyes widening when she saw who it was. Doctor Walker, and... a civilian? 

"Doctor Walker, what's the meaning of this?" she asked hurriedly. They were wasting time; they needed blood. Didn't Walker know not to bring people in during times like this? 

"I ran into him when I was going to get the blood," Walker explained, just as hurriedly. "He said he has the same blood type that she does."

"What's your name, sir?" the doctor asked quickly, not allowing herself even a moment for hope, because hope was always a misplaced thing in the ER. 

"Kyle, ma'am."

"You sure you want us to do this?"

"Yes." 

The doctor nodded, hurrying over to get the necessary tools for taking his blood. Under normal circumstances, she'd have to ask if he were a minor, and if he was, to then get his parent's permission, but honestly, she didn't have time for that. She needed to save a life here; if she got sued later, then that's what she'd have to take in stride. She was  _not_ going to let this girl die, not if she could help it. 

"Right. This is going to sting a bit, maybe hurt. Just be prepared. And it'll feel weird when the blood is being drawn out."

The boy- Kyle- just nodded, holding out his left arm, palm up so she could draw the blood.

Within seconds, she'd gotten roughly enough to at least stabilize the girl, but the moment she turned to set up the IV, the already erratic ECG sent out a long, continuous beep. 

_Shit._

She was, as the colloquial term put it, flatlining. 

"Beginning chest compressions!" a doctor yelled out.

"Someone get the epinephrine," the lead doctor yelled, grabbing it out of another doctor's hands once they had it and plunging the needle into the vein. She was vaguely aware of Kyle's terrified silence, of the mixed emotions of the other doctors working alongside her- some newer ones panicking, the older ones, like her, entering a state of numbness as the probability of the girl's death became more and more eminent. 

There was a beep, a single pulse, another, and then nothing.

The doctor waited. 

Nothing.

The high-pitched, continuous beep didn't stop. 


	11. The End... Or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this chapter sucks. Brendon's hard enough even when it's from the reader's pov, and I just do him worse from his own, so I'm so, so sorry for this horrible characterization.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Fuck._

He was an idiot. He was a fucking _idiot._

Brendon stood up almost frantically, running a hand through his hair. He was an  _idiot._ _  
_

Sure, it'd hurt for her to bring up Spencer and  _Ryan_ like that, especially after Spencer had just left the band and Ryan... But that didn't excuse his behavior. He  _knew_ that saying what he had would hurt her, and he'd done it anyway.

He really was an asshole. 

"Fuck," Brendon muttered, starting to pace. He had no idea what to do- he never did, really, he'd gone into this entire thing blind and terrified from the start and just trying to do his best, but he'd failed anyway. He was terrible with relationships, terrible with people in general- he was the most awkwardly romantic guy in all of America, most likely. It shouldn't have surprised him that he would fail at some point or another. Just, he shouldn't gave basically sucked at every single aspect of their friendship.

He hadn't realized how much pain she was in; he had stupidly thought that taking blades whenever he saw them would magically stop her from doing it again. He _knew_  she was still doing  _something,_ he just didn't know  _how_ to stop her. If she wouldn't even tell him  _why_ the fuck she was doing it, how could he help her?

He supposed his entire problem was just that, though. He didn't know  _how._ He didn't know how to get her to open up. He didn't know how to get her to stop. He didn't know how to make her better. 

So, instead of actually trying to make her better after she'd gotten her ribs bruised by her ex, he'd invited Sarah over and proceeded to flirt with her. He obviously didn't mean it, that was just who he was as a person, but somehow it must've gotten to (y/n). If he wasn't certain that the only sharp thing in his bathroom was one razor that'd require quite a lot of dismantling before you could actually use it as a good cutting tool, he would've been scared that she had cut. But, unless she had somehow hidden a blade in a pocket or her shoe, she should be clean.

Brendon stiffened.  _Fuck._

Except he was a complete  _idiot_ and had let her leave. 

"Fuck," he said again, louder this time. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." 

He knew she'd been upset, at the very least, even if you didn't add the whole debacle about Ryan and Spencer- for some reason he couldn't fathom, she hadn't seem to like Sarah, which he didn't get because how could you  _not_ like Sarah? But she'd already been upset enough from that, and their argument had just made it worse. 

_What if she'd gone home and hurt herself again?_

Brendon paled.  _What if she'd done something worse?_

In a panic, he grabbed his keys and phone and half stumbled, half ran out the door to get to his car. 

 

* * *

 

By the time he pulled into the driveway, Brendon was on the verge of panicking. He had to wait a few extra seconds to calm down, cursing his brain as he did so for wasting valuable seconds, but finally his heartrate calmed and he could move again. He threw his door open and sprinted towards the door, not calling out yet because, firstly, her parents might be there, and secondly, if she really was cutting, he didn't want to give her advance warning so she could try and hide.

Not that he'd believe her. Not this time. But it'd be a minor inconvenience, especially as he'd have to get her clothes off since she'd probably cut on her thighs...

Brendon shook his head.  _No._ He was  _not_ going to think about seeing her naked. Nope. Not happening. 

"(Y/N)?" he yelled, abandoning caution. "(Y/N), tell me you're okay."

Silence.

He dashed up to the bathroom, "(Y/N), please tell me you're okay."

Silence.

"Are... are you in there? Please tell me you're in there." 

Silence.

_Shit._

He pounded on the door, only to find that the door wasn't even closed, but instead opened instantly. He cautiously opened the door, stepping into the bathroom with a sense of dread in his limbs that rapidly turned to horror when he saw what was in there.

Blood.

So much blood.

No amount of horror movies could've prepared him for  _this much_ blood- especially when it was  _hers._

But she wasn't there.

Brendon took a step forward, staving off his panic and kneeling in order to look at the blood more closely. There was a discarded razor in the blood; next to it, an empty pill bottle.

_No._

No no no no no no please no God no nononono...

His head spun, making him faint and dizzy and _no,_ she couldn't be... 

She couldn't be...

He stood up, staggering backwards dizzily until he hit the counter. His entire brain was malfunctioning; he was going through the dizzying, underwater feeling he'd always seen in movies but had never thought was real. It was like reality was unstable, bendy, and he was stuck in the middle of it, right inside the eye of the storm, in a false calm that was ending rapidly.

She was...

Brendon closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over them. He needed to think rationally. 

Obviously, her bod-  _she-_ wasn't in the bathroom, and since there wasn't a trail of blood leading out, that would mean that someone had come and gotten her. 

Or that she'd patched herself up. That was the one spark of hope he allowed himself to have; the hope that, maybe, she'd regretted it at the last moment. 

The tiny spark of hope grew when his phone went off, a muffled version of Far Too Young To Die- her ringtone. He fumbled frantically for it, swiping accept so fast he had to redo it twice. 

"(Y/N), please tell me you're okay. I'm so sorry, I didn't know what I was doing, just tell me you're okay-"

"Um... Brendon Urie?" 

The voice was masculine, nervous, and oddly familiar...

"Kyle."

Silence. 

"Where is she." his tone came out cold and flat in a way he'd never been able to do before. 

"She's... she's in the ER," Kyle mumbled, so quietly that Brendon had to take a moment to realize what he'd said. 

_"What?"_

"Have you... did you see her bathroom yet?" he was sounding more uncomfortable by the minute; Brendon honestly couldn't care less. The asshole deserved it. 

"Yes."

"Then... you saw the blood. And the razor. And the pill bottle."

"Yes."

"I found her, almost unconscious, on the floor," Kyle said, still quiet, "I couldn't stop the bleeding- she made the cuts too wide- and I didn't know how many pills she'd taken, so I called an ambulance. When they got there, I rode in the back with her-"

_"Excuse me?"_ Brendon spluttered, "What do you think gave you the right to do  _that?"_

"Maybe the fact that if it weren't for me, she'd be dead, and if it weren't for what I'm guessing was you getting mad at her, she'd never have done this in the first place?" Kyle retorted. 

Brendon stayed silent. There wasn't really anything you could say to that, was there?

"Still," he muttered, "Why do you care? Wouldn't you be happy if she died?"

"Obviously not," Kyle replied- Brendon could  _hear_ the eye roll- "I brought her to a hospital, so obviously I care enough to at least make sure she doesn't die."

"Why? You've broken bones, and you weren't sorry then. Why do you draw the line at death?"

"I need a punching bag," Kyle answered and Brendon wished that this conversation wasn't over the phone so he could strangle him right then and there. "And I don't want someone's death on my hands."

There was a pause, then Kyle continued. "You, on the other hand, apparently seem to be fine with it."

"Don't you  _fucking dare,"_ Brendon hissed. "Just tell me what hospital she's at so I can come."

"That might not be a good ide-"

"Oh? Why's that?" 

Silence.

Then, in a voice almost so quiet he could even hear, Kyle answered, "She... she flatlined."

Brendon tried to contain the horrified intake of breath and failed miserably. 

_No. She couldn't have._

_She couldn't._

"You're lying," he forced out breathlessly, trying to calm down. It wouldn't make things get any better if he panicked. "She couldn't... she couldn't have..." he grimaced, "Flatlined." 

"I saw for myself," Kyle says, somehow gently, "She needed a blood transfusion and they didn't have her blood type so I offered them my blood, but her monitor went haywire before they could get the blood in."

"So she's..." Brendon tried to form his mouth to the word  _dead_ but somehow even his brain didn't want to cooperate. 

"No," Kyle said quickly. "No, she's not. Not yet, anyway. She's..." there was a pause, and then all of a sudden Brendon could hear the distinctive high beeping of a flatline. "She's been out for less than a minute, she could still make it through." 

Kyle didn't seem like he believed what he was saying.

Brendon didn't, either. 

"Which hospital?" he asked numbly. 

 

* * *

 

Once he got there, he just walked straight into the ER, completely ignoring the other doctor's protests. As long as they didn't try to forcibly eject him from there, he was completely content with letting them be. Thankfully, they apparently gave up within a minute, so he was fine.

Once he was in what he hoped was the correct wing, he brought up (y/n)'s cellphone number and called it; Kyle picked up on the first ring.

"Where are you?" he asked impatiently. 

"I'm in the ER. Which room?" 

"17." 

Brendon looked around; he was currently at what seemed to be 35. "I'll be there in a second," he answered shortly, hanging up and running in her direction.

 

* * *

 

The beeping wouldn't stop. It never stopped, just continuously rang on and on until Brendon's ears were echoing the sound and all he could think of was  _she's dead she's dead she's dead she's dead she's dead..._

"Alright, stop chest compressions." 

Brendon surged forward, shoving Kyle away when the younger male attempted to stop him. "No!" he yelled. "You can't let her die!" 

The person he assumed was the lead doctor looked down. "We've already continued two minutes longer than is the medical norm. If she didn't respond within that time period, there's nothing more we can do." she turned towards another doctor. "Time of death, 5:02 P.M."

Brendon just stood there, mute with horror, as the other doctor nodded and began typing it into the computer. 

But he didn't get to finish typing.

Right before he pressed enter, the heart rate monitor sent out a tiny beep.

Everyone froze as one, spinning around and staring blankly at the monitor. For a long time, it stayed silent and Brendon was certain that it'd just been a fluke, but then another beep sounded, and seconds later, another. 

She was alive.

She was fucking  _alive._

The doctor's didn't waste any time, setting up an IV and pumping stuff into her; Brendon just stood back and watched, too relieved to do anything but stare. She was _alive_ , her heart was beating, she was breathing... Even though he knew she was still hanging by a thread, it didn't matter, because she was okay. 

She was okay. 


	12. If I Could Trade Mistakes for Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, guys. This chapter might have a few more typos and weird syntax things than is the norm, since it's currently past 2 a.m. over here and I probably missed a few things in the editing process, but hopefully it'll still be okay.   
> There aren't many trigger warnings, just one for mentions of suicide and I think maybe suicidal thoughts, so yeah, stay safe if that's going to hurt you in any way.

You wake with a start.

There are voices all around you, different tones and pitches but all loud, blending together in a confusing blur of sound that takes you awhile to decipher. 

"Why isn't she waking up?" 

"Sir, calm down. Her body sustained a lot of damage, it's only natural for her to take a while to wake up."

"It's been  _two days_ since she first got here!" 

_Wait, what? Two days? Two days since..._

You try to move, only to find that you're somehow paralyzed and can't move a muscle. That eliminates seeing, then. Looks like you're going to have to rely on your other senses. 

The very smell of the room is repulsive, deathly clean and reminding you of blades and scars, of thrown up food in toilets and tears and pills swallowed in desperation, of cold voices in your head and bruises and cold laughs that come flooding back to you all at once and if you could move, you'd be looking for the nearest sharp object to plunge into your chest.

The voices have stopped now, and after a moment you realize it's not just you; they really _have_ silenced completely. You're not sure you like that, because now you're stuck in the dark, alone, and you don't like that. Especially when one of the voices was familiar and if you were just a little less out of it, you'd've recognized it. 

You hear a soft, muffled set of footsteps that stop right next to you. If you could move, you would've stiffened, but your body hasn't seen fit to release you out of your paralysis yet so you keep still. 

There's an awkward throat clear, then you feel fingertips graze your skin. You're actually kind of grateful for the whole no moving thing right then, cause if you didn't have it, you would've flinched, and you don't like displaying your weaknesses.

"I'm sorry."

With a start, you recognize the voice and instantly take back what you said about flinching. Although, since apparently you can't shiver either, you still think this body bind is nice. 

"This is all my fault," Brendon says quietly, "And now because of me you're stuck in this place." he shifts a bit; you think he might've sat down but you're not sure. "Did you know..." you hear a sort of gasping breath, "Did you know you were... you were  _dead."_

 _Well,_ you think,  _at least I partially succeeded. I'm not a_ complete  _fuck-up._

"When I got there, you were... there was just this beeping," he says, quieter now. "And it... it wouldn't stop. I watched them try to save you, (y/n), and then they stopped. They just stopped."

_Good._

They did their job right.

But how were you still here, then? Were you dead? Cause this was a crappy death if you were still there. 

"They just turned around and announced your time of death, and they went to record it, and..." he pauses; you're not sure whether it's to compose himself or what. "Your heart started beating again."

 _Dammit._ You realize that you shouldn't be this disappointed about still being alive, but you can't help it. Your problems haven't magically been solved now that you're back to life, after all. 

Brendon huffs a slightly bitter laugh. "Why am I even saying this? I know you can't hear me. You're fucking asleep, and the doctors said you might never wake up."

If you could move, you would be staring at him in horror, because death, you're okay with. But _this?_ This... silent subjugation to the dark where you're totally and utterly helpless to whatever forces may see fit to hurt you?

This is unbearable. 

 

* * *

 

Brendon continues to visit you every day, surprisingly. You don't get it; why would he think spending time with what's basically a body is fun? Especially when it's  _your_ unconscious body.

But apparently, he does. Sometimes he won't even say anything, just sit there in silence with his fingertips lightly grazing your arm. Sometimes, you hear him shouting at the doctors and nurses nearby.

And sometimes, sometimes he talks. 

"Hey," he greets quietly. You've grown accustomed to hearing his voice now; really, if you could, you'd be smiling right now despite yourself (because being in a coma sucks, it sucks because you hate yourself still and you want to die and this time there's no release from your thoughts, nothing but the endless loop of  _worthless, not good enough, pathetic_ and on and on and on until you want to scream yourself hoarse but you can't because you can't move and you just... you just want to  _die,_ is that too hard to ask?).

"Um, I brought something today." you hear something scrape against wood and realize it must be his guitar. "You see, there's this theory that comatose people can actually hear everything people are saying." he shifts, a bit nervously against the chair. "I mean, it could be completely wrong, which would be nice because do you have any  _idea_ how depressing it is to tell jokes and have no one laugh?" 

You snort, inside your head of course, wishing more than ever that you could actually move. 

"But, uh, anyway. I thought I'd, maybe play something for you. In case you actually can hear. And I mean it wouldn't hurt even if you can't." he clears his throat, showing off a bit and strumming a few elaborate chords that make you want to roll your eyes before he starts up the melody. 

_"Placing a smile at the perfect event,_

_Gracing your skin with the side of my hand._

_If I ever leave I could learn to miss you,_

_But 'sentimental boy' in my nom de plume."_

Okay, that's... an interesting choice of song. Why that one?

_"Let me save you, hold this rope..."_

If it were possible, your breath would've hitched in shock.  _Oh._

He can't be saying _that,_ can he? 

You know you're probably over-analyzing, but it almost seems like he picked the song on purpose, like he's trying to tell you something, maybe. Ropes are known as lines for which you can be pulled up to safety, but if you give too much, they can also turn into a noose.

Maybe he's saying he wanted to save you... but yet he ended up killing you instead?

 _Or,_ you think,  _maybe you should just shut up and stop thinking about lyrics that were written years before he even met you._

_"I may never sleep tonight, never sleep tonig-_

_As long as you're still burning bright,_

_If I could trade mistakes for sheep, count me away before you sleep,_

_I'll stay awake til I trade my mistakes,_

_Or they fade away."_

You know that searching for hidden meanings in things almost never turns out well, but you can't ignore it this time. So what? You're in a fucking coma and you might never wake up, you can over-analyze things as much as you want to.

Seeing as you're in a coma, the word 'sleep' isn't exactly the best, but you guess no song's perfect, especially if the reason Brendon wrote this was very much not for you.

But... it could be taken in the context that his 'mistake' is letting (well, not letting you, but setting you off to) you do this. If he could trade what he'd done for something that would give you peace...

 _Shut up,_ you tell yourself.  _Stop doing this. He probably just likes the song._

_"I feel marooned in this body,_

_Deserted, my organs can go on without me,_

_You can fly these wings,_

_You can sleep in this box with me..."_

You close your (metaphoric) eyes and (metaphorically) sigh. Nope. You are  _not_ thinking about this verse. Nope.

_"Let me save you, hold this rope,_

_I may never sleep tonight,_

_As long as you're still burning bright,_

_If I could trade mistakes for sheep,_

_Count me away before you sleep,_

_I'll stay awake till I trade my mistakes or they fade away."_

You can't help but wonder, though, if maybe there is an underlying meaning to this. It almost, kind of, sounds like... goodbye.

_"So let me save you,_

_Hold this rope and I'll pull you in,_

_Because I am an anchor,_

_Save her or feel it sinking in,_

_Let me save you, hold this rope,_

_I am an anchor, sinking her..."_

_No._

He can't be saying that... can he?

He's... he sounds like he's saying he's only ever hurt you. And that he's going to let you go because of it. Which you  _can't_ let happen because  _none_ of this, none of this was his fault.

For the first time, you fight against the paralysis set on your muscles and veins. You're not going to let him think that. You're just  _not._

_"...I'll stay awake till I trade my mistakes,_

_Or they fade awa-"_

"No." 

You wrench your eyes open, wincing as your voice comes out cracked from disuse. Brendon jumps, looking up from his guitar, gaping and completely shellshocked. You feel equally shocked when you lock eyes with him; he looks  _horrible._ His eyes are dark rimmed and exhausted and his hair looks completely unkempt, like he just stopped caring one day and never started again.

"(Y/N)? You're..."

"Yeah," you say, clearing your throat. "I'm awake. And it's not your fault, Brendon. None of this was your fault."

"Of  _course_ it was," he snaps, running a hand over his face tiredly and deflating almost immediately. "Of course it is. You didn't just suddenly decide you were going to _kill yourself,_ now did you?"

You force yourself not to flinch (though you doubt you would've been able to, anyway; your entire body still feels sluggish). "No, but..." you bite your lip. "I was going to, anyway. Before..." you look away. "Before I met you, I was going to do it, maybe within a month. You made me better, Brendon. Not worse."

Of course, when he went on tour, you were about to do it again, but you're not going to mention that. 

"But then I'm the one who pushed you over the edge," he retorts, jaw clenched and somehow looking fragile under all the anger. "I made you do this to yourself." 

"Brendon, stop," you almost beg. "It's not your fault, okay? It's  _mine."_

"No it's not!" he grits his teeth, shaking his head. "None of this is your fault! Not your... your cutting, not how you feel about yourself, not anything. This is my fault and I'm sorry." his tone has a note of finality, but you refuse to listen to it. 

"No-"

 _"Yes._ It's my fault, and I shouldn't even  _be_ here right now, you hurt yourself because of  _me_ and..." he stops, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Do you have any  _idea_ how much that hurts? To know that the gir- that you hurt yourself because of me? That the fucking  _reason_ you were medically dead for  _four fucking minutes_ is that I was an asshole?"

"You weren't-"

"Don't try to tell me I'm not," he says, quieter, his eyes starting to look glassy. "I  _am,_ even on a good day. I'm a jerk, and a fuckboy, and an asshole, and I know that's who I am and I'm okay with that, but not... not to  _that_ extent, I'm not okay with making people hurt themselves. Especially not when it's you." _  
_

"Brendon..." 

"So I'm going to leave," he continues. "I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have."

You have a moment to stare at him in absolute horror, then he's moving and you are too, grabbing onto his free hand desperately. He jumps; you understand why, because you've never initiated contact with him to your knowledge and now you're doing this, but you _don't care._  

"Don't leave me."

He stops in his tracks, turning around and shifting his hold on his guitar. "I have to, (y/n), don't you see?"

"You helped me, Brendon, don't _you_ see?" your head throbs and you almost fall over, your body not used to this much motion after being immobile for days... weeks? You have no idea how long you've been asleep.

Brendon grabs you, leaning you back against your pillow before you can fall. He tries to pull away but you grab his hand as well as you can because you're  _not_ letting him leave.

"I did  _this_ to you," he retorts, waving vaguely at your IV and heart monitor with his free hand. "I fail to see how this is  _help."_

"Look, Brendon, it was just..." you stop. Shouldn't you be  _letting_ him go, if that's what he wants? Isn't the fact that he'll never want you like you want him one of the ones that made you attempt suicide in the first place? "Never mind," you mumble, releasing his hand and closing your eyes. "You're right. You should leave."

Brendon tilts his head, looking confused and not making a move to leave. You resist the urge to sigh; must he  _always_ do what you  _don't_ want him to do?

"You've been in here every day, Brendon. You've been wasting away your life here with me and it needs to stop."

Brendon blinks. "You...you could hear me?"

"Of course," you answer, uncomfortable. "I heard everything you said."

"Then you'd know I never thought this was a waste of time." he tilts his head, eyes narrowing in confusion and pain. "Why is it that you...that you always think I don't want to be around you?"

You shrug, looking away. "I just don't see how anyone  _could_ want to be around me." 

Brendon moves, sitting down next to you and taking you in his arms. "I do. I always do."

You finally turn back around, locking eyes with him. "Then why do you want to leave if it's not to get rid of me?"

"I already told you," he retorts, his voice breaking halfway through. "I can't hurt you again."

"You're my only friend, Brendon." you pointedly ignore the shadow that crossed over his face at 'friend' because you know that at this point, your tiredness is just making you hallucinate what you  _want_ to see. "It would hurt more if you left me alone. You have no idea how bad I get by myself, Brendon." 

He stares at you, conflicted. "But..."

You smile, just a bit bitterly. "I was alone when I tried to kill myself, remember? That's how bad I get."

Brendon gapes, obviously trying to think of something, but thankfully is interrupted by a nurse coming in- and, of course, stopping in shock.

"You're up," she says, a bit obviously. "Well, that's good news. How are you feeling?"

You shrug, looking down at your bandaged wrists. "Tired, I guess."

The nurse nods, moving around and adjusting your IV. "Any pain?"

You shake your head. "Not really. Just tired mostly." she nods again, taking out a stethoscope and a few other items, going through a quick check-up. When she finishes, she tells you you're doing fine, you'll be out in a few weeks, and then spews something about how you're recommended for therapy- which you try not to throw up because _therapy?_ Please no. Absolutely nothing, from the sitting down, to the spilling all of your deepest secrets so they can be taken apart and examined from every view, appeals to you. 

"I'm fine, thanks," you mutter, turning away and closing your eyes. The nurse, thankfully, takes that as a cue to leave, shutting the door behind her and leaving you and Brendon alone again. 

"Brendon-" you cut yourself off with a humongous yawn that makes him laugh as he stands up and ruffles your hair.

"Get some rest, 'kay? I'll be back tomorrow."

"Promise?"

He turns around and gives you a soft smile. "Promise."

 

* * *

 

When you wake up next, it's noon and Brendon is watching you with a smirk. 

"A bit late to be waking up, huh?" he asks, dodging your sleepy poke with a laugh. "I was beginning to think you'd gone back into a coma." 

You shake your head. "Nah, you're stuck with me now, I'm afraid." 

"Good," he says quickly- maybe too quickly, but you're not exactly complaining. "Uh, how are you feeling? Any better?"

"I feel okay, I guess. Kinda sluggish, it's probably gonna take a while to get my strength back." 

"So does that mean I get to carry you around, then?" 

You reach out to punch him and he leans back, laughing. "It was just a question, jeez." 

"A question you knew would end like this!"

He grins. "Yeah, so what?"

"You're impossible." You laugh in spite of yourself and Brendon's smile just grows wider.

"So I brought some movies and stuff cause, if I remember correctly, hospital TV sucks." he holds out a bag that looks suspiciously like it came from your house and you give a disbelieving laugh.

"Did you break into my house and steal those?" you're trying not to laugh, because this whole thing is very  _Brendon;_ something a bit against the law but at the same time will probably make the other person happy- along with him. 

"You have a lot more DVDs than I do," he defends, running a hand through his hair. "Anyway, I... um, which one do you want to watch?" 

You hum, looking through the bag before leaning back. "I don't really care, you can pick. As long as it's not Frozen."

Brendon laughs, mutters something about 'careful what you wish for' and then pulls a case out triumphantly. 

You groan. "Really? Man of Steel? Didn't we just watch that one like a month ago?"

He blinks, almost long enough to be termed as a wince. "A month and a half ago, actually." 

"Close enough." 

He laughs, but it's not as light as it was before and you wished you had never said anything cause now he's guilt-ridden again- when will he realize it's  _not_ his fault?

Before you can think of anything else to say, he stands up and puts the disc in, climbing into bed with you (when you protest, half-heartedly shoving him off, he just snuggles closer and mumbles something about deserving something better after sitting in a hardass chair for weeks) and then pressing play. 

 

* * *

 

 

Some time later, the movie (and the one after that)'s ended and you're half-asleep, warm and comfortable and hopelessly tangled up with Brendon, who's currently, if your muddle brain is processing correctly, also half-asleep with you pulled into his chest and one of your wrists cradled in his hands.

"Brendon?" you murmur sleepily.

"Yeah?"

"I..."  _abort mission,_ your brain screams,  _abort mission._ "Thanks."

He laughs, but it's the sort of unreadable laugh you can't tell if it's happy or sad. "Always, doofus. You don't have to thank me." most of his words float right past your semi-unconscious brain and you just bury your head further into his chest and mutter something that even you don't know what it was. But then Brendon stiffens briefly before his hand comes up to stroke your hair softly and you have a fleeting moment to wonder what the hell it was you murmured before tiredness starts taking every coherent thought out of your brain. Seconds later, his soft voice fills your ears and you drift off to the sound of his singing.

_"Now the night is coming to an end,_

_The sun will rise, and we will try again,_

_Stay alive, stay alive for me..."_


	13. All That You Are (Is All That I'll Ever Need)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I'm sorry this thing took so long, I really am. I had probably the worst writer's block of my life where basically every sentence physically hurt to write, I had zero inspiration, zero motivation and I spent the first week of my tiny little hiatus staring blankly at my screen with no idea what to write. So um. Sorry that it probably sucks.  
> TW for: Um... suicidal thoughts? And self-harming ones, too.

The nurses, you're pretty certain, are trying to drive you insane. 

They've kept you here for a good two weeks, already, after you'd woken up- under the guise of 'coma recovery' or some other bullshit like that.

And yeah, you had to admit that they had a point, because your muscles were so weak they practically wouldn't even work anymore and you needed far more sleep than a person who'd been in a coma for half a month should, in your point of view, need. But after the first week or so, you felt  _fine,_ normal, even. At this point, you're fairly certain they're just keeping you here so you don't try to kill yourself again or something.

Which, okay, is pretty admirable seeing as part of you still  _wants_ to die (no shit, Sherlock), but come on, it's a free country. You should be able to kill yourself if you really, really want to. 

Which you don't, not  _really._ Sure, you have occasional moments when Brendon's gone home for the night and you're sitting back in bed, thinking about how nice it'd be to not have to feel those _stupid,_ stupid _feelings_ , but for the most part, you're fine.

The only thing you really, really want to do is cut. Which of course you can't do because the hospital seems to have a thing about keeping sharp objects away from suicidal patients, and as it's not like Brendon's exactly going to _give_ you one if you ask him, well...

But it's not so bad, you guess. You have Brendon for the large part of every day and enough movies and TV shows that, whenever he's not there, you can forget about him. You suppose there are definitely worse states you could be in. 

Honestly, though, you're sick of staying in this cold, hard building whose pristine, whitewashed walls cover over death and disease and pain, vomit and splintered bones and sickness. You're sick of being treated like you're fragile- you're  _fine,_ you really are. You're not going to break, not going to splinter at one harsh word.

You're lying to yourself. That much you know.

But which part is the lie? That you're strong, or weak? Broken, or whole? 

Sane, or insane?

If the nurse's aim had been to drive you crazy, then she'd definitely succeeded. 

You just want to leave.

You want to  _leave._

Is that so hard to ask? You want to leave so you can bleed again, watch your body's veins slowly empty like they did a month before, when you first got thrown into this godforsaken place.

It was your only way to cope- your _only_ way to cope, and then the nurses took it away from you. You're not certain how you're still alive and sane- although you're fairly certain Brendon's a big part of that- but however it is, it's not because you wanted to be.

"Mornin'," Brendon greets as he breezes in with a much wider than usual grin on his face that makes you wonder with a sinking feeling if he had been talking to Sarah, maybe. 

"You look happy," you blurt before you can stop yourself, just barely restraining your hands from hitting your forehead as hard as you can.

"I talked to the nurse," he replies, practically bouncing. "She said you can leave today!"

You smile, as well, albeit for (most likely) an entirely different reason than his. "That's great," you respond, almost jumping out of the bed- you can go back home, you can cut again, you can finally get that release you've been itching for for  _weeks-_ and help Brendon gather all your stuff. There's not a lot; just some movies and spare clothes that Brendon got from your house so you didn't have to wear that hospital gown for the entirety of your stay, and the two of you are able to carry it without help.

Within a few minutes, you've checked up with the nurse, confirmed your departure, checked out at the reception desk, and then you're finally, _finally_  out.

 

* * *

 

"Brendon? You missed the turn." You look over at him, brow furrowed. 

"No, I didn't," he responds without missing a beat. "I'm taking you back to my house." 

You stiffen, not sure if you're more mad or horrified. Is this what your life has become, being taken from one fishbowl to another, being observed so you can't 'do anything stupid'? Are you just supposed to sit in silence as you're watched, not allowed to shave or even use knives, for what you're certain will be the rest of your (hopefully short) life? 

"Why can't I go home?" you half-whine, not caring if you come off as childish. You just want to go  _home,_ someplace where you can finally be alone without fear of having someone watching your every move, where you can just break down and cry and bleed without knowing you'll be judged. 

Brendon slows, looking over at you with mixed emotions floating in his eyes- somewhere between anger and pain and something else completely unreadable. 

"You're on suicide watch," he states bluntly and turns back to the road. His knuckles whiten against the steering wheel, but you're not sure if it's in anger or something else. 

"I have parents," you retort.

"Parents that are hardly ever around," he responds with a tired sigh. "The hospital would only let you go if I promised them I'd watch over you 24 hours a day." 

You're not sure who you're more furious at right now- Brendon, or the nurses who did this. Why can't they just let you live in  _peace?_ Well, or die in peace, rather, since you kinda still want to do that, too. All you know is you're mad, but you can't do anything. You're helpless. But being out of the hospital, even if you're being watched 24/7, is still better than being trapped inside its confining walls, you guess, no matter what's going on after that.

"Good for them," you finally mutter as neutrally as possible, crossing your arms and looking out your window. Just because you know that this was the only way to get out of prison, doesn't mean you have to be happy about it. 

Brendon, for his part, remains just as stubbornly silent, even to the point when you're getting out of his car and Brendon's unlocking his front door. Finally, however, when you're both standing awkwardly just inside the door, Brendon breaks the silence. 

"Uh, I got my xbox hooked up yesterday and Zach dared me to play Outlast..." he shifts a bit, "From what I've seen, it's some scary shit and I don't especially want to play it alone." he gives you a semi-pleading look and you give in with a nod.

"Fine. But I get to play, too."

 

* * *

 

Okay, you get that Brendon's supposed to be making sure you won't kill yourself or whatever, but  _come on._ Brendon's taking this to a whole new level. He follows you around  _everywhere,_ from the kitchen to the fucking  _bathroom_ (thankfully he doesn't try to come in, just stays outside) and you had to argue with him just so you could sleep in separate beds. 

Yes, you get that you're supposed to be on this stupid 24/7 suicide watch, and also that Brendon's constant (and off-putting) presence is much more preferable than its alternative, but seriously. Brendon needs to back off. You're used to being alone, in fact prefer it, because being alone means you can cut, and sleep in, wear sweats and no bra, and don't have to worry about being judged by anyone but yourself. Being with  _anyone,_ even if it's Brendon, means judgement. And you already hate yourself enough, you don't need other people's opinions in the mix.

Of course you know that Brendon is the one that told you not to be ashamed of your scars that one time a long, long time ago, but come on. Do you really think you're going to believe that? 

For one, it was a  _long,_ long time ago; secondly, you never even believed it in the first place.

How could he have _ever_ meant that? You  _know_ they're shameful, that they're just a reminder of how much you suck at this thing called life, and that Brendon thinks lying is a good solution to your problem just proves how much you can't trust him.

Except you think you might've already made that mistake. Trusting him, that is. 

You trust him, more than you should- which is not at all. You trust him enough to let him touch you; you trust him to let him stand next to you without punching him in the gut. You trust him enough to fall asleep on the couch next to him whenever you two stayed up late watching a movie, and you trust him enough to not freak out when you wake up the next morning held against his chest and tangled up in him. 

You  _do_ trust him, no matter how much you wish you didn't. Your trust is supposed to be something not easily gained, yet it  _was,_ and-

Well. You suppose that's not true. It wasn't easily gained; it took him months of movies, and tiny flinches whenever you made a self-deprecating joke about yourself, of soft smiles whenever you said something particularly stupid or funny, and hugs and small touches once you let him touch you. It took him weeks of clenched jaws and guilty smiles and saddened eyes whenever he saw a scar because he blamed himself, always only himself, for 'letting' you do this to yourself (he was never part of the equation, he still isn't no matter how much he's trying, and kind of succeeding, to be now), and days of soft eyes and smiles, laughter that made you smile back despite your sadness, soft guitar playing, and a voice that can be soft as a blanket or as sharp as broken glass. 

And you realize, however reluctantly, that you trust him. You don't know when it happened, or how, or why you do (okay, that's a lie, every soft look and guilt-ridden word and quiet declaration that you shouldn't be ashamed of what you've done is the  _why),_ but you do. You trust him more than anyone else in the world and that's- that's kind of terrifying. The last person you've trusted like that is... well, no one. This is entirely new and you don't know what's happening, or what's going to happen, and that's absolutely  _terrifying._

Of course, then there's the tiny little part about how you know Brendon doesn't feel the same way about you. That's the painful part, especially when you remember that you're nobody, a girl with scars on her wrists and a tear in her heart, with tears behind her eyes and a soul as broken as shattered glass, and Brendon's a celebrity with four albums and 3.5 million dollars to his name. You don't deserve someone as good as him and he doesn't deserve to be weighed down by you, yet here you are, in his house, with him. 

"Hey," Brendon murmurs, plopping down on the couch and leaning towards you; you jump, startled from your thoughts. 

"Hey, yourself," you reply, smiling a little despite your thoughts  _(no,_ you are not  _in love,_ you just like Brendon. A lot) and staying still when Brendon wraps an arm around you and snuggles up. 

"Movie?" he mumbles into your side once he's done so and you fight to not shiver as you try to get your brain back into working condition. 

"If you wanna do that, one of us is going to have to get up," you tell him, trying not to laugh when he groans and snuggles further into you. 

"Isn't there a remote? We could get Netflix or something," he tries, except he says it into your sweatshirt so it comes out more like 'ifn't thr a remte? We cld get N'fx r mthin.' 

"The remote's like, ten feet away or something, we're still going to have to get up," you say, trying to push Brendon off of you so you can get up. He grudgingly obeys, falling back onto his side and watching you as you cross the distance and grab the remote, plopping back down on the sofa and laughing as Brendon snuggles back up to you again. 

"If you're that cold, you should get a blanket," you inform him, laughing a bit and turning the TV on. When he just groans, muttering something about too much effort, you snort and open Netflix. "What do you wanna watch?"

"You pick."

"Careful, or I'll choose Pride and Prejudice," you grin, but Brendon doesn't look impressed.

"No, you wouldn't. I know you better than that."

You sigh, conceding defeat. "Fine. I guess we can just watch Ironman or something." 

Brendon shrugs, or does his best impression of a shrug he can while mostly wrapped around you, shifting a little to get comfortable. "Just turn it on already, I'm bored." 

You roll your eyes and press play.

 

* * *

 

"Brendon." You sigh in exasperation, glaring at him. "It's been more than a week, I'm not supposed to be on that stupid suicide watch anymore, that ended _two days ago!"_  

"It ends when I say it does!" he retorts, crossing his arms and meeting your glare face-on. You mirror him, crossing your arms as well and intensifying your stare.

"Oh, so now you're the one who gets to make decisions on my well-being?" 

"Yes!"

"What do you think gives you the right?" you snap, backing up when Brendon's stare goes up dangerously in intensity. You can't tell what, exactly, he's thinking, or what he's feeling- pain? Guilt? Anger? that contributed to the aforementioned intensity, but you know it's not good. 

"What gives me  _the right,_ is that I'm the only fucking person on this entire earth, apparently, that has never  _once_ intentionally tried to hurt you!" he almost hisses.  _"You,_ on the other hand, lost that right when you tried to fucking kill yourself!" 

Right. Anger it is.

"I lost that _right,_ because I actually know what's best for the people around me? _Really?"_ you snap before you even realize what you've said. 

Brendon freezes. The intensity- anger? fades from his eyes and he takes a step forward, towards you. "Do you- do you really think that?" he asks softly, his voice cracking partway through and looking- you can't even describe it. It's somewhere far, far past pained, or horrified, or even stricken. 

You look away. "Yeah," you answer so quietly you can barely hear your own, partway cracking, voice, your heart beating dangerously fast from some unidentified emotion- fear? Anticipation?

All you know is that your heart is beating as fast as if you were running a hundred yard dash and adrenaline is pumping through your veins, readying itself for fight or flight, and yeah, you're pretty sure it's not anticipation anymore and has just skipped to plain old fear. A whole lot hinges on Brendon's reaction and you're trying to push down the tiny flame of hope that's whispering  _maybe he'll understand, maybe he'll accept it,_ because you know that that's not going to happen. You don't even know why you're still standing in front of him, allowing your doom to fall down like you are. You should be running; why aren't you?

And then, as you start your turn in order to flee, Brendon finally moves towards you. Before you can even move an inch, Brendon's crushing you, hugging you so hard your barely healed ribs throb a little bit.

The two of you just stay there for a long time, not moving, just standing there, until Brendon finally pulls back. 

"The world would  _not_ be better off without you," he says finally, his voice coming out in a hoarse, cracked whisper. "And I wouldn't be, either." 

You're pretty sure you heart may have shorted out for a second, but you tell yourself to calm down. Brendon couldn't have meant that, not if he really knew you. 

"You don't mean that."

Brendon laughs a little incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. "I don't? It's my fucking head, I think I know what I mean."

You keep the silent  _but you can't mean it_ down in your head. "It's just... you can't."

"Why not?"

You nervously play with your fingers, biting your lip. "Just. No one can." 

Brendon narrows his eyes and tilts his head, a mixture of sadness and challenge in his expression. "Why do you think that?"

There's an almost overwhelming urge to back up, laugh, say it's nothing; anything to get out of this uncomfortable tension that now pervades the room. The only thing keeping you from running and never looking back is the voice in the back of your head saying  _Brendon's been with you for months, he deserves to know._

"I just do," you mumble. "I'm... broken. I'm depressed and I just have, you know, issues and..."

"Do you really think I fucking care about your issues?" he breaks in, his tone soft and belying his words. "They are part of what makes you who you are. Your 'issues' make you human. They make you flawed, sure, but who wants a perfect human, anyway? You're not perfect, no one is of themselves." he runs a hand through his hair, meeting your gaze directly and intensely enough that you shift uncomfortably. "It's only the person who likes you that thinks you're perfect."

"Yeah," you agree absently, because  _yes,_ you do think that about him...

Then you register Brendon's laughter and jerk your head up, confused. "What did I say?"

He continues laughing for a minute before sobering a bit. "Only you wouldn't realize I was talking about you," he states, shaking his head with what looks kinda like a fond smile. 

_Talking about you...?_

What.

"What?" 

He chuckles, brushing a strand of your hair of your eyes. "I like you," he states clearly, his tone confident. 

You just stare at him. Your brain is running so fast you can barely process all the thoughts.  _He likes you, he likes you, he said he thought you were perfect, he likes you..._

 _Lies,_ another part of your brain scoffs. 

"Really?" it comes out skeptical, thankfully, and not as breathy as it was threatening to sound. Brendon's brow furrows and he tilts his head, confused.

"You still don't believe me?" he huffs. "What, you think I'm lying to you or something?"

You stay silent and he sighs. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?" 

There's a part of you that wants to be immature and mutter  _nothing_ but you don't want to do that. If Brendon really meant what he said, you know how much he's doing just to say this; confessing you like someone and then having the other person respond like you did isn't exactly...  _ideal,_ to say the least.

"I don't know," you say honestly, a bit helplessly. "Just having someone say they like me isn't going to solve this..." you motion vaguely towards yourself, "This..." you look up at Brendon, maybe for help- even you don't know, but his eyes are just saddened and pained. "I'm broken," you finally say, sighing. "I'm ruined and I don't think I can be fixed." 

"You're not broken," Brendon insists, stepping closer to you. "Just bent, and you can learn to love again."

You snort a little despite yourself, a smile lifting one side of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Trust Brendon to quote P!nk in the middle of a very intense conversation. 

It is, you suppose, one of the things you love about him.

_Shit._

_Not now,_ you yell at your thoughts. You  _don't_ need to think about that right now.

"So..." Brendon shifts his weight; you realize just how nervous he must've been this entire time, despite how he didn't show it- showman and all that, you guess. "Do you... do you like me back?"

You're tempted to roll your eyes and mutter  _what are we, schoolgirls?_ But instead you just nod, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes despite the fear you have that he could still be lying- that you could never be enough for him anyway. "Yeah," you almost whisper. "Yeah, I do." 

Brendon grins as if he's read your mind. "Then that's all I need." 


	14. I know how you look into a mirror (and you hate what you see)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since my schedule is once more extremely full and I'm busy basically all day, I'm not going to be able to update as often, but rest assured, as long as at least a few people still like this thing, I'm not going to abandon it.   
> By the way, the chapter is really short and it cuts off really awkwardly so sorry about that, I just couldn't think of a good ending.  
> TW: Mentions of self-harm

Somehow, life's kind of, just a little bit, easier now. 

You're not sure how, exactly; you just know that now, when you have bad mornings and days and nights and  _everything,_ Brendon starts rapping out something nonsensical, and when you get the urge to cut, or starve, or hurt yourself in any of the other (many) ways you've found that work, he'll bring you to the studio, or make you hot chocolate and sit with you on the couch. 

It's kinda stupid, really- not what he does for you, of course, just that you'd thought he couldn't tell when you were having a bad day. You had thought you could hide it, that you were _good_ at hiding this kind of stuff from him, but now? Now you just realize how  _stupid_ you were to have even thought that. Brendon can almost always tell, within the first five minutes, exactly how you're feeling in a way that's creepily uncanny (you once asked him if he could read your mind; he just laughed and asked if you wanted whipped cream on your hot chocolate or not). 

And of course he doesn't always do it; of course there are still days when you go to bed crying or dig your nails into your flesh until blood comes, but it's better. It's not perfect, and your life is still kind of shitty what with school, and your parents who seem to care progressively less and less about you (you're still staying in Brendon's guest room, thank God for that), and  _Kyle_ (who, unbeknownst to Brendon, continues to beat you up every couple days- avoiding your face, obviously, and just sticking to your torso), but you think that maybe life's finally started to turn around for you.   

Of course, your brain loves to laugh and yell  _psyche!_ every night, and a lot of the times during the day, and you're still too scared, or hurt, or  _something,_ to tell Brendon about anything other than just the bare necessities (which, you have to admit, is better than what it was previously). 

But you're good. You're  _fine._

You don't think Brendon believes that. He's too smart- he tells you one night, when you're lying down in his lap on the couch, watching Netflix with him, that he almost always knew when you were lying, he was just too terrified, too uncertain and  _stupid_ to do anything about it, and he didn't want to lose you (his words, not yours). But he's never pushed at you before, and he doesn't now, even though you can tell it's driving him insane, making him drum nervous patterns on tables and counters whenever you say or do something that reminds him of just how  _not okay_ you are. 

You sorta, kinda wish he would, honestly. You want to tell him (not him, _someone,_ you correct yourself firmly, he's  _not_ special, he  _isn't)_ about you, about your brokenness but you know it's stupid and downright  _pathetic_ and you've talked too much about it (even though you haven't really, at all) and you don't want to burden him. 

But you already have, haven't you? You're staying in his house, eating his food; he drives you to school every day, watches Netflix with you... If you're already burdening him that much, why not just increase it?

But you can't. You don't know what it is, but you're still terrified that, if you say what you truly feel, something will change. He'll look at you differently- in scorn, or contempt- and he'll laugh, kick you out of the house...

It's idiotic, you know that. He's seen you with blood running down your arm, he's seen you in the ER, medically dead- he's seen you in a fucking _coma!_  If none of that made him run away, how would this?

But somehow, something about actually  _telling_ him is petrifying, preventing you from saying it every time you think about finally going up to him and saying  _hey, Brendon, we need to talk._ Something about actually revealing just how messed up you are- because, your brain says, seeing you bleed and actually hearing  _why_ you did that are two  _completely_ different things- always stops you in your tracks. 

You have a feeling Brendon knows; something about the tone in his voice as he asks you if you're okay and did you want to say something- something about the fucking  _hope,_ the tiny, almost fragile-y expectant look in his eyes gives you the sense that he  _wants_ you to say something. 

But you can't. You fucking  _can't._ You want to, you want to  _so badly-_

And at the same time, you don't.

And even if you did, completely, you'd never be able to say it.

So you're screwed. 

 

* * *

 

"Hey," Brendon murmurs, sidling up next to you and sliding an arm around your back, pulling you in for a quick squeeze and gazing at you worriedly once he lets you step back slightly. "What's the matter?" 

You're tempted to just laugh and give him that easy  _nothing, I'm fine,_ but you know that's only going to hurt Brendon. And besides, the two of you are past that response now (you think). 

"Just... stuff," you force out, feeling absurdly proud of just those two words. You look up at him, expecting an eye-roll or a sarcastic  _oh really?_ expression but his eyes are soft, not hard or sarcastic. 

"Like what?" 

You look down and away, feeling that familiar urge to rip his hands off your shoulders and run; but this time, you make yourself take a deep breath and stay put.

"Hey." he tilts your chin back up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "You can tell me, you know."

You shrug helplessly. "I don't know how." 

He looks just as lost as you feel, pulling you back close to him and hugging you tightly. "I don't know, either," he whispers into your hair, squeezing you even tighter. 

You stay silent, because what can you even say to that, anyway?

Brendon finally lets you go, but his eyes are still scared and lost and you realize he has even less idea of what to do than you. 

"I could... I could ask you questions, maybe?" 

You stare at him. You see no reason that would help, at all; you doubt you'll even be able to fucking  _answer_ some of the questions because your brain is just  _stupid_ like that.

But...

"S-sure," you reply, your voice somewhere between stuttering and breaking. 

 

* * *

 

He starts out slow and easy; favorite song, which makes you roll your eyes and tell him about 10 different ones because how could you ever choose your favorite? The next questions get progressively harder, to the point where you have to clench your jaw and force the words out (how long have you wanted to do that?) but Brendon's still not asked the big questions, and to be honest, you're actually kind of relieved. 

Do you want to tell him? 

...you think so?

You're still not certain, and that just makes the wait harder. 

But then Brendon shifts on the sofa the two of you had eventually gravitated to and looks straight into your eyes and you have a bad feeling your time's up.

"Why?" 

You freeze, paralyzed for a moment.

"Why what?" you eke out, even though you know full well what he's asking. 

He smiles, a bit sadly, brushing your shoulder with a hand. "Why do you hate yourself?" 

"I just...do," you mumble. "I've never really thought about it." 

"What do you hate about yourself?"

 _Run,_ your brain screams at you.  _Run, you idiot._

 _Shut up,_ you tell it.  _It's time he knows. You've been hiding for so long._

 _But I don't want to,_ it replies childishly and you have to agree. But he's been with you for this long. And if he judges you, well...he was going to leave anyway, one day, right?

"Everything." You look defiantly into his eyes and will your voice to sound as strong as possible (just in case), but the contempt you were expecting to be there isn't. 

He just looks... 

Hurt? Is that what it is? 

No, you decide after a moment. 

He looks  _destroyed._

"But I like you," he finally says, weak and vulnerable and adorably confused. 

"Liking me doesn't magically solve the problem," you retort, sighing. 

"No," he says quickly. "I didn't... I didn't mean it like... I just." he stops short and runs a hand through his hair, sighing. "I don't get how you can hate yourself if you're... you know." he trails off again, motioning vaguely at you; you raise an eyebrow but don't cut in. "You're, you're... you're great, you know?"

You keep your eyebrow raised despite trying not to blush (it's really quite sad how as small a compliment as that can get that kind of reaction out of you, really). 

"You're... I just don't..." he sighs. "I guess I just don't get  _how."_

"How I hate myself?" you clarify.

He nods.

"It just sort of... happened," you admit slowly. "At first, it was because I didn't have many friends, then because I had none, and I was lonely. Then I'd... someone would say I was obnoxious, or annoying, or something like that. And it could only be once, or it could be many times, that didn't matter. I'd just keep thinking it, and then it got worse. I look in the mirror now, and all I see is..."

"What?" Brendon asks softly when you stay silent, leaning forward a little bit but not crowding you; something you're partially between grateful and annoyed about because part of you wants comfort; the other wants solace. 

"I'm not good enough," you force out through a voice that gave up partway through the sentence and a mind that's screaming  _no!_

Brendon stiffens and his eyes do that weird thing where the energy in them sort of goes up like he just flipped a power switch in his brain. He bites his lip- against what words, you don't know- and says in a half-strangled voice, "Go on." 

"What more do you want me to say?" you whisper. You feel drained and exhausted, even after saying less than 10% of what's in your stupid fucking brain, and you don't want this to go on. 

"Why?" he just asks again. 

So you tell him. 

You tell him of the first time you cut yourself, of the first time you hid in the bathroom and cried until you couldn't cry anymore. You tell him of how lonely you were (carefully, of course, not telling him everything) and why you did what you did (at first, not why it happens now). 

And, surprisingly, he listens. You're pretty sure he knows that you're still skipping over a lot of stuff and omitting other things, but he seems... not  _happy,_ but relieved. Relieved that you're finally talking to him, you guess.

When you finish, he's silent for a long time. The familiar uncertainty (fear) swells up in your throat and you half expect him to stand up and leave, but he stays put. When you look over at him, his expression is shifting rapidly, too quickly to read correctly, although it doesn't look good. Then he looks over at you and you give him a nervous smile. He  _gapes,_ literally gapes, at you for a fraction of a second, eyes wide and horrified and you don't know what he just thought of but it can't be good. 

"You're... are you going to leave me, now?" you whisper after a second of breathless silence, looking away from him. 

"What?" you look back over at him; he looks visibly thrown, like he was completely lost in his own thoughts. "No, no, 'course not." He gives you a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I wouldn't do that right after you..." he stops. "I'm not that much of an ass," he amends. 

There's an awkward silence where both of you have no idea what to say, then Brendon breaks, per usual, it by bursting into song- to be more accurately, he starts singing Let It Go.

"Brendon!"

You glare at him, horrified, and he just laughs, finishing out the verse despite your visible disgust. "Did you  _have_ to do that?" 

He tilts his head from side to side and shrugs a shoulder. "Nah, but I wanted to anyway." 

You sigh, fighting a smile despite yourself. "Of course you did," you mumble, trying to glare at him and failing when he gives you a sunny smile. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Brendon," you hiss at the unconscious body currently halfway on top of you. "Brendon! It's night time, I need to go to bed." 

He groans something incoherently and latches on tighter to you. 

You roll your eyes.

In the few weeks you've been at Brendon's house, you've learned that Brendon's the worlds biggest cuddle slut. He hates being cold and alone- two things he always was before you came, or so he told you once (you tried not to read into that)- and now that he has someone warm and, according to him,  _reasonably_ comfy, if you let him onto you, it's almost impossible to get him off. He'll latch onto you, and once he's half-asleep, it doesn't matter what you do, it's easier to get super glue off than him. 

"Come on, just wake up and let go of me," you sigh, trying to push him off of you (it's futile, obviously). 

His eyes open, just a little, and he looks up at you sleepily. "But I'm so comfy," he whines groggily. "I don't wanna."        

"Brendon." 

"Please?" he looks so vulnerable, childish even (he's fucking like what, 26? He shouldn't be able to get away with being so  _cute._ It's unfair), and after a few seconds you sigh and cave in. 

"Fine. But not here, I actually want to go to sleep tonight."

Brendon just stares at you uncomprehendingly and you already regret what you're about to say.

"Let's go. To, um. Your bed."

"You want me to take you to bed?" even when sleepy, he can still do a pretty damn good smirk and you turn bright red despite your best efforts. 

"Shut up! You know what I meant!" 

"You're going to have to clarify that, (y/n)," he grins, leaning closer to you and suddenly no longer looking tired. His eyes flicker down to your lips and then back up and he leans forward, just slightly, before stopping. 

"Just... if you want to cuddle that badly we can do it somewhere more comfortable than a couch," you stammer out, not sure exactly why you're so nervous. The two of you already said you liked each other, right?

Except you love him.

You think.

So, you know, that could be a problem. Just a little bit of one. 

He smiles and you feel your stupid,  _stupid_ heart throb. "Yeah, sure." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kinda thinking about having the next chapter be this one, except from Beebo's pov, but I don't know, what do you guys think?


	15. I Know How You Look Into a Mirror (And You Hate What You See) Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said the last time I did a Beebo pov, I'm really sorry for how badly I manage to capture Brendon's personality in his own thoughts. Even though I know Brendon will (thankfully) never, ever read this, I still feel the need to apologize.   
> On other thoughts, TW: Mentions of self-harm.

"So..." he shifts, his previous confidence deflating a bit. "Do you...do you like me back?" 

He swears he might've stopped breathing, just for a second, to hear her reply.

If she  _doesn't..._ well, he knows from experience how quickly this is going to become awkward.

She just looks at him for one terrifying second, biting her lip, before she drops her head in a nod and suddenly Brendon can breathe again. "Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah, I do."

He can see the fear in her eyes, all the uncertainty and insecurity and he thinks he might know what she's thinking;  _I'm not good enough, why the fuck did I say that?_

He steps towards her, offering her a (he hopes) reassuring smile. "Then that's all that I need."

 

* * *

 

The moment he walks into the room he can tell something's wrong.

She's dead silent, not nearly as talkative as she normally would be; her eyes are dark, too, and her fingers are twitching. Brendon has a bad feeling he knows what she's aching for, and it's not drugs- that, he'd be... not  _okay_ with, but at least he'd know how to deal with that- but _this?_ This is an entirely different ball park. 

This is something entirely different and he has no fucking clue what to do, no fucking clue how he's not going to end up messing this up like he did with so many other relationships before her. 

Granted, a lot of them were technically the girl's fault and a lot weren't even relationships, but still. 

He can't afford to make mistakes. Not this time. 

He can't lose her. He's come too close already.

"Heya," he greets, walking up next to her and watching as she jumps, startled. 

"Hey, Brendon," she replies, but something doesn't sound quite right and Brendon's even more certain she was thinking something bad.

He wants to ask her what's wrong, what she's thinking about, how he can make it better, but he's doesn't know _how,_ and he's scared. Scared he's asking the wrong things; scared that she won't answer.

Because he doesn't want to push her. He's made that mistake before, and he's not going to again. Not when there's this much at stake. 

"Want some hot chocolate?" he asks instead. Maybe he can try and divert her thoughts somewhere else. It's probably not going to work, but hey, it's worth a try, right? 

She smiles, her eyes looking a little brighter, a little less haunted. "I _always_ want hot chocolate."

 

* * *

 

There are days, of course, where his distracting strategy doesn't work, days where she has to go to school and he can tell she's already upset. 

Those days are by far the worst.

One of the worst feelings has to be knowing someone you like is in pain and being powerless to stop it. There's absolutely nothing that can make her better; nothing that he knows of, at least (he's talked to Pete, even therapy doesn't always work) except her just sort of  _deciding_ she's better than that. 

Which- don't get him wrong, he's never had problems like hers so he doesn't exactly know what's going on- seems kind of bullshit in his opinion. Although he might be able to scold himself out of an anxiety attack, this is (y/n) he's talking about. And although he'd never question her strength- anyone who's held themselves together through the multitude of stuff she's had going on underneath is _anything_ but weak- she's shockingly fragile in some ways, and he knows she's not able to do that; not now, at least.

It's confusing, of course, because he doesn't get how someone who could fucking keep all that a secret from him for _weeks_ could be so easily hurt by a sentence, or a cold laugh, but he can see how much it hurts, even if she never says anything about it. 

And so, he's terrified. He knows of nothing that can help her; not herself, not anyone else.

Not even him, however much it hurts.

He can make her forget what was bothering her, but he can't fix it. He's like ibuprofen pills on a splintered bone, except far less long-lasting. 

There's nothing,  _nothing_ he can do- being in a relationship doesn't automatically heal your soul (and they aren't even  _in_ a fucking relationship) and she won't fucking let him in, she won't let him see  _her,_ her as she really is without all the walls built up to protect herself from everything- everything except herself, of course.

He has nothing to go on, no reference point or graph- this can't be fucking plotted on a graph, how could that ever even be made? 

He's all alone in this world that seems set against him, with a girl he doesn't know how to help. 

It's got to be one of the most painful situations in the world. Not more painful than hers, obviously, but there's something about helplessly standing there as she silently suffers that has got to make this the most painful thing he's ever experienced. 

He just wants to make her better.

But he doesn't know how. 

 

* * *

 

"Hey," he murmurs, giving himself a silent eye-roll for those super original one-liners. "What's the matter?" 

She goes stiff around the arm he slung across her shoulders and he can see her conflicted expression. 

He's been through this what seems like a thousand times; he's asked this questions more than that, it seems. She's not going to answer the way he wants,  _needs;_ he's not going to push.

But she hesitates a moment longer and then mumbles, "Just... stuff."

 _Well,_ Brendon thinks,  _that's progress._

She looks at him uncertainly, probably expecting sarcasm or something like that, but honestly, Brendon's done with joking around about this. This is  _not_ a joking matter, it's serious- she's  _hurting,_ she's hurting  _herself-_  she once hurt herself because of  _him-_ and that hurts more than anything he's ever been through before. 

"Like what?"

She tenses, not giving a response, and he can faintly feel her pulse thrum, speeding up. From past experience, he'd say she's thinking about running right now and he can't let that happen, not when she's so close to finally telling him  _something._

"Hey." he bends down, cupping her cheek and forcing her to meet his eyes. "You can tell me, you know."

A pause.

She shrugs, looking as overwhelmed and scared as Brendon does. "I don't know how."

Brendon looks back at her, just as lost as she is, and hugs her as tightly as he can, burying his face in her hair. "I don't know either."

There's a long silence; Brendon finally lets her go, looking back into her eyes and trying to not look as terrified as he feels. "I could..." he stops and clears his throat. "I could ask you questions, maybe?"

He can almost see the eye-roll waiting to happen, but for some reason, it doesn't. She seems to evaluate the questions, before nodding mutely and Brendon feels something like hope and relief combined rushing into his chest.

"S-sure."

 

* * *

 

It's not exactly easy to think of good questions; it's probably one of the most difficult things he's ever done, because he doesn't know how far he can push her without making her close up. But he does his best, starting off with things like favorite song and fictional character, hoping to the God he doesn't even believe in that he won't make a mistake this time. 

He can tell she's getting tenser, obviously anticipating the questions to come, but he doesn't know how to make it better except to get it over with (like ripping off a band-aid, someone once told him). 

But he doesn't know if he can... if he can actually  _do_ this. If he can actually do it  _right_ this time. He's so used to avoiding his problems he doesn't even know if he can stop.  _He's_ most of the reason Panic! even split up in the first place; he wouldn't fucking face his problems, and Ryan wouldn't, either, and now look at where that got them. 

He's so accustomed to letting things go and taking the consequences as they come, that he's absurdly afraid he'll do it again. 

"Why?" 

It's not an easy question to force out, by any means, and it hardly becomes any easier when he sees her freeze, eyes wide and scared.

"Why what?" 

He forces a smile and finally makes up his mind. He's  _not_ going to let what happened to Panic! happen to her. He won't let her run away from her problems like he and Ryan did. He's never going to let that happen again. Ever.

"Why do you hate yourself?"

She looks down, clenching her hands into fists and then unclenching them. "I just...do," she mutters. "I've never really thought about it."

He blinks, torn between pain and fear- that stupid, incessant fear he'll somehow fuck it up; that he'll accidentally trip over a landmine and blow this whole thing to bits. 

"What do you..."  _just get it out,_ he screams silently, "...hate... about yourself?"

There's a long, long pause. Her muscles tense up and he can tell she wants to run, but thankfully, she doesn't make a move to. 

"Everything," she says defiantly, giving him the kind of brave look only people who have already hit rock bottom and have nothing left to fear can; and then, because apparently Brendon's a fucking case of cliche, he almost physically feels his heart rend.

"But I like you," he manages to squeak out, hurt and confused and  _fuck,_ why didn't he figure this out sooner? She's just been sitting there, in this much pain, hating herself  _this much_ and he didn't even know; what kind of asshole is he? 

"Liking me doesn't magically solve the problem."

Brendon blinks, shaking his head rapidly. "No," he agrees quickly- he hadn't meant it that way, just, just that... he likes her, he thinks she's amazing and he doesn't get it, how could she hate herself that much? "I didn't... I didn't mean it like... I just." his vocal chords short out on him and he's reduced to waving vaguely at the air and sighing. "I don't get how you can hate yourself if you're... you know."

She raises an eyebrow.

 _Amazing,_ his brain tells him flatly.  _Tell her what you think._

"You're, you're... you're great, you know?"

He wants to physically hit himself in the forehead.  _Very smooth, Brendon._

"You're... I just don't..."  _I don't get how you can even find something to hate like that._ "I guess I just don't get how."

She gives you a confused look. _"How..._  I hate myself?"

He nods slowly. 

"It just sort of... happened," she starts slowly. Brendon's even more confused because how does something like that  _just happen?_ But he stays silent; there's no way in hell he's going to interrupt her now that she's finally opening up. 

"At first," she continues, "It was because I didn't have many friends, then because I had none, and I was lonely. Then I'd..." she stops, looking away; Brendon thinks he can see her eyes getting red and he wants to comfort her but he doesn't know _how,_ "Someone would say I was obnoxious, or annoying, or something like that. And it could only be once, or it could be many times, that didn't matter. I'd just keep thinking it, and then it got worse. I look in the mirror now, and all I see is..."

She's not full-out crying, but Brendon can see her eyes shimmering and he knows she's close to it. He wants to hug her, kiss her, have sex with her,  _something_ to make it better, but when he leans forward a little bit, she leans back and he knows she doesn't want him close right now. It's understandable, but he can't deny it hurts. 

"What?" he asks, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

"I'm not good enough," she says quietly, resignedly. The unspoken  _I_ _'ll never be good enough, either,_ rings in the air. 

He doesn't know how to respond, not without overwhelming her (he's an overwhelming person; she's fragile right now, he can't hurt her), so he forces himself to remain still and calm and then he chokes out, "Go on."

"What more do you want me to say?" she asks, tired and quiet and Brendon wishes he could stop this now, but he promised both himself and her he was going to make this better a long, long time ago. He's not going to renege on his deal. 

So he just asks again, "Why?" 

 

* * *

 

 

When she finally stops, Brendon's almost started to go numb.

He just...he never knew. He never knew how much she's gone through- from her own fucking  _mind-_ and that she's still alive... that isn't weakness, that's  _strength._ Despite her fragility, she's got to be one of the strongest people he's ever met- he knows he definitely wouldn't have dealt with what she'd been through as well as she has. 

He finally manages to stir himself out of his shellshocked existence and looks over at her.

She's tired, her hair is a complete mess and her eyes are red and scared but then she smiles at him, that insecure, nervous smile he's seen on her so often, and his heart lurches.

_Oh._

_Fuck._

 

It's a bit cliche, which is just great (his whole  _life_ is a fucking cliche, apparently) but he guesses there's really no point in trying to deny it. 

He's in love with her. 

He's fucking _in love_ with her.

"You're... are you going to leave me, now?" she cuts into his thoughts; he freezes, thrown, looking back at her. 

_What? Never._

"What? No, no, 'course not," he says quickly.  _I'm not going to fucking leave you, you can rest assured on that._ He opens his mouth, ready to say it out loud, but, like usual, his vocal chords decide to disobey and the only thing that comes out is a "I wouldn't do that right after you... I'm not that much of an ass."

Which, you know. He could be a poet with words  _that_ smooth. 

There's an awkward silence which he fills with Let It Go; she gives him a horrified look and he laughs, but through it all, there's only one thing he's thinking.

_I'm fucking in love with her._

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a few days for him to get over the initial shock of  _way to go dude, you've actually fallen in love,_ but once he does, it gets easier- just a little- to push the thought away.

Of course, it's not like he continuously thinks it, or anything. No, it just pops up seemingly randomly in his day; one time when he wakes up in the morning and hears a clatter as she drops basically every pan in the kitchen on the floor, another when he's driving her to school and she falls asleep on his shoulder, another when she's laughing over beating him in Mario Kart... 

But every time, he'll look over at her and open his mouth, those stupid words wanting to slip out of his mouth and ruin their relationship forever. 

He  _knows_ she's not ready for that; she's still insecure and fragile, and he still doesn't really know how to make her better. 

"Hey, (y/n), I need to check up on your ribs," he calls towards her door. There's a sound of protest; Brendon rolls his eyes because she really hasn't changed in the couple weeks she's been at his house. 

"They're fine!" she protests through the door.

"They were really badly bruised, I need to make sure they've fully healed," he tells her and laughs at the annoyed huff he can just barely hear through the door.

"They're  _fine,_ Brendon, just put it to rest already," she grumbles. 

Of course, he instantly stiffens and silently resolves to find out why the hell she's suddenly getting so cagey. 

_Has she been cutting again?_

Brendon shakes his head. She couldn't be; he'd made sure to only have two razors in the bathroom, both of which are almost impossible to dismantle- they're the kind that you just use until the blade loses its sharpness and then you buy a new one. And he'd found every other loose, sharp object around the house and put them somewhere safe. 

But she's smart. There's a very real possibility she's still doing it, behind his back, which is fucking infuriating as well as, well, painful, because  _why won't she just talk to him?_

"Come out, (y/n)." his tone is solid and leaves no room for argument. 

He hears her sigh, click a lock, and open the door, stepping out to face him. He doesn't say anything, just motions to the sofa so she can sit down, and she silently obeys- though she does look like her doom is approaching, which doesn't exactly make Brendon feel better. 

Once they're both seated, Brendon reaches out slowly, looking up in her eyes to make sure he's not catching her off guard. She just nods, closing her eyes and biting her lip so hard he thinks she might be aiming to draw blood. He slowly lifts up her shirt, afraid he's going to see thin, red lines and blood, but what he sees instead is so unexpected he stops in shock.

Instead of silver scars and red lines, there are bright, sickening splashes of different colors- blue, green, fading yellow, purple- that stain her torso; some fresh, some fading.

Brendon doesn't even have to ask to know who did this. 

He's so mad he can't even think clearly- that  _fucking asshole, those doctors should've just taken all his blood and drained him fucking dry-_ but for her sake, he forces himself to calm down. He can't let her think that it's her he's mad at her. 

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It's starting to become the motto of their relationship; her hiding things, him finding out and getting hurt she didn't tell him. And he knows that she's afraid he'll judge her, or something fucking stupid like that (he'd never do that; he just needs to find some way of convincing her of that), but it still hurts. 

"I couldn't... I couldn't take the chance that you'd..."

He stays silent, waiting for her to go on.

"He... Kyle... he told me he'd tell you... unless I let him do that to me."

Brendon stiffens, just slightly. "Tell me what?" 

She looks down. "I was pregnant." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?


	16. Maybe You Could Start Living (For Me?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's taken this long to update. I don't even know what happened, just that somehow, I managed to start two more fanfics and get surgery before I actually sat down to write something for this fic and I really need to get a grip lol.  
> TW: If miscarriages are a trigger, then that.

"I was pregnant," you mutter, resignation written all over your features. 

Silence.

When you look over at Brendon, he's staring at you, horrified and surprised at the same time. You bite your lip and wish you had never said anything. It appears you've finally done it, though, from the look on his face; you've finally said what you need to make him leave you.

"Say something," you whisper, voice cracking. 

"Did he hurt you?" Brendon hisses, his shellshocked and horrified expression morphing into anger. 

"What? _No!_ No, it- it wasn't... he didn't..." you can't express what you're thinking properly, but Brendon seems to get it, as he calms down at least a bit. 

"What happened?"

"He wasn't always abusive," you start slowly. "He was nice. Like most assholes like him are at first, I guess. I liked him; he was funny, he seemed to understand... that was all, and more than I thought I deserved, you know?" 

Brendon doesn't say anything, just nods, eyes pained but without pity. 

"I liked him, he liked me- or, I thought he did. So you know, I was okay with giving him... you know. I was actually kinda happy with him, to be honest. But apparently my good luck had run out because one morning, I realized I hadn't gotten my period in over a month and a half. And the next day I started vomiting."

"What did he say?" Brendon asks quietly. 

"He was furious. Yelled at me for hours about how much of a fucking worthless bitch I am and all that. And...it was. Um. It was the first time he hit me."

"How long did you stay?" 

You sigh. "Longer than I should've. I let him push me around, beat me up, all that. He kept trying to get me to get an abortion, but... Turns out I wouldn't get a choice on that one." 

"What happened?" he asks again, but something in his face tells you he probably already knows, he's just waiting for you to say it.

"Kyle was having a particularly bad day. So when he came to me, it was a lot worse than usual. I lost a lot of blood."

You sigh, blinking rapidly. It's hard to think about, even months later. "It must've jumpstarted something, because I wake up in the middle of the night in my bed. There's this horrible, jabbing pain in my stomach and the sheets are wet. I stumble out of bed, turn on the lights, and they're red. With blood.  _My_ blood." 

Brendon reaches forward and hugs you. "That sucks," he says quietly. 

"My own baby didn't even want to be with me," you laugh out bitterly. 

"That's not true." 

"Isn't it? It died. It didn't want to be born and suffer with me as a mother." 

Brendon pulls back, looking you square in the eyes. "Would you have kept it, though? Wouldn't you have put it up for adoption? Or just aborted it?" 

You blink. "I...I don't know, to be honest." 

"And the baby didn't have a choice, either. It could've been a birth defect, you'll never know. But, no matter what it was..." he smiles, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. "If the time ever comes for you to be a mother- to _want_ a child, when you're ready for it, you'll be amazing."

"What if I'm never ready?" you whisper.

He grins. "Then that's okay, too." 

 

* * *

 

It's been a couple days, but you can't really stop thinking about your last in depth conversation with Brendon-  _that_ conversation. 

You kinda have to admit, it felt sort of cathartic, in a way, sort of relieving to be able to finally,  _finally_ tell someone about what you've been through, and have that person not only _not_ laugh, but actually  _care._ And not in a pitying way, like one of your old friends had. Brendon seemed to know enough about you to know you didn't want, or need, his pity. 

And, of course, then there was that awkward little moment when Brendon told you it was okay if you never felt ready to be a mother or any of that (he added a screw gender roles and normalcy sometime after that, too) and you think you might've fallen in love with him all over again.

Fucking Brendon Urie and his fucking perfect...everything. Or something. 

You're distracted from your thoughts by a thump next to you as Brendon plops down on the sofa and sighs. "I swear to God, I'm never going to get that beat right." 

"What's wrong with it?"

He shrugs, shaking his head a bit. "I don't know, it just doesn't feel right or something. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah," you answer, even though you don't really. "Do you want to watch TV? It might help to take your mind off it for a while." 

Brendon smiles a bit. "I was actually coming in here to do just that, thinking about one thing for too long never ends well." He inches over to you and grabs the remote, turning the TV on and snuggling up to you. 

You don't really know what to say, really. All you know is that the man wrapped around you, intently watching the next episode of Friends, is the best thing that's ever happened to you and you don't even want to think about what would happen if he ever leaves.

Yeah,  _if._

Somehow, sometime along this whole topsy-turvy, upside down strange  _thing_ that can only sort of be called a relationship, the inevitable  _when he leaves_ got changed to an  _if._ You still know that there's a huge possibility he could tire of you; boring, filled with issues, worthless you, but somehow, _sometime_ when he gave you a softer version of his usual brilliant smile and told you he'd never thought and would never think of you as worthless, the huge, looming  _when_ flipped over into that uncertain  _maybe._

It's kinda worse in some ways, really, the uncertainty gracing you with hours of nerves and the occasional  _shit what if this makes him leave_ , but in the end, you think the days- weeks- of sitting in your bed, wondering just what you could accidentally do to make Brendon leave is infinitely worse than a few tortuous  _maybe_ 's. 

"Whatcha thinking about?" 

You look up, eyes wider than usual. The pause menu on the TV reads 30 minutes in; you've been thinking for a long time without even realizing it. 

"I..."

Brendon turns, giving you his full attention and making sure you're giving him yours. "Come on, tell me," he says, the command he was trying for softening into a plea. "Please," he adds, a bit of- in your opinion- misplaced desperation in his tone. 

You shrug, not really sure how to vocalize your thoughts.

"(Y/N), please. You know I'd never hurt you, right?"

 _Not intentionally,_ you think, but keep silent. "Yeah," you lie. 

Brendon's eyes sharpen with a mix of pain and vindication. "You think I'd- I'd hurt you." it's somewhere between a statement and a question, and you're not really sure how to respond. 

"Not- not intentionally," you force out with a mouth that feels like it's full of gravel and a tongue that refuses to work. "But..." you stop for a moment. You know that you should say it; Brendon's told you more than once that he likes to know exactly what you feel and think about everything, especially him, but that doesn't mean actually saying it isn't hard. 

"Accidentally," Brendon finishes for you, looking away in what you presume is a way to hide his hurt. "You think I'd hurt you without meaning to."

"Know," you blurt out, covering your mouth with a hand once you've done so. 

Brendon turns around so fast it almost gives you whiplash. "You think...you think I'm that clumsy? Or that I'm careless? That I'd throw away your heart without even knowing it?" he doesn't sound angry, which surprises you; just curious and very, very hurt. 

"No," you say quickly. "No, of course not. I- I just- I-"

"Then what?" he asks softly. "I know I'm not exactly nice, or caring, or whatever, but-"

"No, no, it's not that, you're- you're great, it's just... me." You sigh and look away. "I'm the problem. I just... don't get how you're... still here." You turn back around.  _"Are_ you still here?"

Brendon smiles softly, brushing your hair out of your eyes and tracing your cheekbones with his hand. "You can feel that, can't you? I'm real, of course I am. I'm not gonna leave you."

"I wish I could believe that," you mumble, sighing. There's so much you want to say- that none of this is Brendon's fault, this is all just because of your stupid, fucked up brain that can't seem to believe this entire thing is real- but you can't, so you stay silent. 

"What will it take for you to believe me?" he leans forward, intensity shining in his eyes. "I'll do it, I swear. Whatever it takes." 

"I don't know," you whisper honestly, meeting his dark eyes with your own. "I don't know what you can do."

He nods, somehow seeming to have expected that answer. "Then I'll stay with you until you do."

You stiffen. "What then?"

He laughs lightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Then I'll stay with you forever after that." 

 

* * *

 

 The next morning, Brendon drives you to school as per usual, but there's something different in his expression and you're not sure if you like it. It's not a  _bad_ expression, not mad or anything, but the steely, determined glint on his eyes tells you that whatever he's planning on doing is probably not going to be good. 

"We're here," he announces, turning off the ignition and opening his door. 

"Brendon," you say, stopping him in his tracks. "Whatever you're planning on doing, don't."

He turns back to look at you. "What makes you say I'm planning on anything?"

You sigh. "I know you have something up your sleeve, and I can't tell you don't think I'm gonna like it. So don't do it."

He turns around and you silently admit defeat. This battle's lost; Brendon's not going to listen to you anymore now that he's turned his back. "I have to." 

"No, you  really don't," you mutter, defeated, opening the backseat door and getting your backpack out. 

When you look back up, Brendon's not there, so you hastily sling your backpack onto your shoulder and start running.

"Brendon!" you call, not quite shouting but definitely not at a normal volume, either. _"Brendon!"_

When you finally spot  ~~your boyfriend? Friend?~~ him, he's got his hands on your ex's collar and is currently throwing him against a wall. The entire rest of your school, apparently, has formed a ring around them, cheering and screaming some incoherent word that sounds kinda like  _fight_ but you could be mistaken.

"Brendon!" you yell, running closer. The cheering doesn't stop, but he does, letting Kyle scramble to his feet, and then turning to you. "What the  _hell_ are you doing, you idiot?" 

"I'm making sure you won't be messed with again," he replies, giving a sideways kick to Kyle without glancing over. There's a cold, almost vicious glint in his eyes and all of a sudden, you're really glad he's on your side. He might act indifferent most of the time, but, apparently...that doesn't mean you should mess with him.

Or you, apparently. 

"You don't have to do this." it comes out strangely flat, although that could be because you're out of breath from running there as fast as you could. 

Brendon looks over at your ex. 

"Yeah, I think I do." 

He grabs Kyle again, kneeing him in the groin and shoving him up against the wall again. "Don't. Mess. With. Her. Again." 

Kyle has the sense to look properly terrified and just nods a bit. 

"Did you understand me?" Brendon hisses, protective fury in his eyes. "If you lay a finger on her again, or have anyone else do the same, I will take you down." Brendon hardly even waits for Kyle's nod, turning away and letting him collapse to the ground as he breaks through the now silent throng of people and strides over to you.

"If he hurts you again," he says, softly enough that anyone else around you would have a hard time hearing, _"Please,_ tell me. Okay?" 

Your brain feels like its circuits just got blown, or something. No one's ever gone to that much trouble for you,  _ever,_ and you think it's really to be expected it's that hard to process, really. But you manage a mute nod, and, satisfied, Brendon gives you a hug and waves goodbye.

 

* * *

 

After that, your day actually went pretty well. As the girl with the boyfriend (their words, not yours) who had just beat up the unanimously hated school bully, you were actually suddenly quite popular. 

Of course, the popularity had its bad sides, like the one where all the popular girls of the school suddenly decided they hated you because you had an extremely hot man defending your honor (again, their words, not yours), but overall, it was fine. You managed to get through all periods without so much as a shove into a locker or an 'accidental' trip and really, you could get used to this. 

You know you shouldn't, of course. Brendon's intervention could hardly be expected to last forever. But, if you're lucky, it might just get you through the rest of the school year and graduation, and then you'll be free of that forever. 

So, you open your locker, collect your stuff, and walk out smiling for the first time in your life. You've never been more grateful to Brendon- _for_ Brendon- and you know it's kinda sappy but you really,  _really_ think you're in love with him.

Well... _know_ you're in love with him. Like you've been for the past, like, 3 months or something. 

"How was school?" Brendon had, somehow, managed to pull up right next to you when you were drifting off somewhere in your brain, apparently; you give the obligatory jump and glare at him.

"A little warning next time?"

He laughs, "I gave you plenty of warning, princess, you were too lost in thought to notice it."

You make a face. He has a good point.

"Anyway, what were you thinking about? Something good, I hope." the obscene smirk you're all too familiar makes an appearance and you roll your eyes, fending off your blush.

"Shut up, you- inappropriate old man," you blurt, walking around the front of the car to your seat as you do so. 

He clutches a hand to his heart. "I'll have you know, the few year age gap between us does not automatically make me an old man."

"Keep telling yourself that." 

"If I'm that old, why are you even living with me, then?" 

You stiffen. "I'm- I'm not..." technically, you're still living with your parents, even if you've only been back there a few times since your hospital...visit... to get clothes and such. 

Brendon's features soften a bit but he doesn't respond until you're in the car and he's driving off. "Look, (y/n)," he starts gently. "You know I care about you. I'd never hurt you intentionally, and I'm not trying to push, but maybe it's time to let go."

"Let...go?" you ask uncertainly. 

"Yeah. I'm not saying that everything you're feeling is stupid, it's normal after everything you've been through, but maybe you should stop surviving and start living." he turns to look at you for a second. "Living...with me. Together." 

You gape at him.

There's a slightly awkward silence for a moment, then Brendon stops at a traffic light and turns back to you. "You know I'd never pressure you, so if you're not ready, I'll leave it here. And if you don't feel the same way anymore, that's fine. I just..."

Your brain takes off, going into overtime as it frantically goes through everything you know, everything you  _feel,_ about him.

_Brendon Urie. 24._

_Do you trust him? Would you trust him with yourself?_

You do. You would. You already have, really. 

_Then what's holding you up? The man you're in love with just asked if he could be with you. What are you waiting for?_

For the first time, the incessant  _he doesn't love me, he doesn't want me, he's lying, he wouldn't stay with me forever,_ all that sort of evaporates. You trust him. You really do. 

It doesn't mean you're not still kinda terrified. It doesn't mean you won't still have moments, hours, days where you'll second guess everything. But, for once, you think you can take a leap of faith. You think you can trust him to catch you, after all. To catch you and never let go. 

So you look up, straight into his eyes and nod, just once. 

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think I can try living, for once." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just thought I should let you know, this is nearing the end of the road for this fic.  
> I had originally intended on maybe a sequel of some sort, covering the 'real' writing of Hallelujah (look up the meaning of the song on Genius and you should know what I had in mind), but now that I have two Peterick fics underway and maybe(?) a Patrick/Reader one or something, I think the sequel might have to wait, maybe forever.  
> I'm thinking only a couple more chapters, probably less than five for sure. So I'd just like to say, thanks for everyone who's read this thus far and will (hopefully) continue to read it until the end!


	17. This Was A Therapeutic Chain Of Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't edit this before I put it up so it will probably suck. Sorry about that. 
> 
> TW: None, unless scars count.

It goes slowly at first, both of you still cautious around each other, not sure exactly what to do or say, but months pass by, every day seeing another improvement. Eventually, the continual urge to slice your veins open begins to die away, obviously helped out by Brendon's... well, everything. There are steps backwards, and forwards, and the occasional one sideways as you begin to lose yourself again and have to let Brendon pull you back. 

Honestly, you're happier than you've ever been. Brendon's kept his promise to never leave you, and yeah, it might not be sunshine and rainbows even on the best days, but you're healing, however slowly that might be, and Brendon's there to help you. And really, you don't need _or_ want a perfect, sunshiney relationship like you see in chick-flicks. What you have with Brendon is just fine, perfect, really, and it's all you could ever really want or need. 

"Mornin'." 

You look up, smile forming on your face. "It's almost noon, Brendon."

He just shrugs. "Close enough, princess. What were you thinking about doing today?"

"No idea," you admit. "Did you have anything you wanted to do?" ever since you got out of school, you've had nothing but free time and you kinda want to put it to at least some use other than just sitting around all day. At least the two of you could, like, watch a movie or something, right? 

He turns away, pretending to look at a stack of paper on the kitchen table. You know, without him even saying anything, that you're not going to like what he's about to say. 

"It's kind of hot today," he states casually. "Don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess," you answer slowly, unsure about what he's getting to. 

"I was kinda thinking about, maybe, going to a park or something, what do you think?" he turns around, finally meeting your eyes again. The question seems far more significant than what the words would seem and you just stare at him in confusion for a long moment. 

"Yeah, sure," you agree uncertainly, turning to leave to go get ready. What's so special about his question? Is it a special day or something?

 _Shit,_ is it one of your anniversaries? 

"Where are you going?" his eyes look brighter now, more intense; you're still not sure what the hell he's thinking but it's definitely not helping your anxiety out. 

"To...get ready?" you motion to your shorts and t-shirt (you hadn't wanted to wear something like that in front of Brendon, at first, but the proud look in his eyes when you finally revealed all your scars to him made it entirely worth it), confused. 

"Why? Aren't those fine for the weather right now? It's pretty fucking humid out there right now."

You stare at him for another moment, and then it finally clicks. 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"Brendon, no! I am not walking around town to show off my scars in front of my old schoolmate's faces!" 

A small, sad smile flickers across his face. "I thought you'd say something like that."

"Then why did you even ask?"

"Because I still don't think there's anything about them that's shameful, and if anyone thinks that then fuck them, but I know you feel differently."

"Then why ask?" you just say again, confused and a little bit annoyed. 

"Because I still think you're just fine with scars, I think you're beautiful, and I want you to think the same thing about yourself. And I know there's no way you'll ever think you're beautiful if you don't even want to go out in public with your scars showing." 

You sigh. "Brendon..." 

"Just once?" he pleads. "For me?"

"Brendon..." 

He looks down, a tiny disappointed sigh escaping him. "Mmkay. I won't push if you really don't want to."

He looks so sad, so disappointed, and finally you can't take it anymore. "Do you really think that?"

Brendon looks back up. "Think what?"

"That my scars don't...that you don't care about..."

"Yes." there's no hesitance in his voice.

"Why?" 

"Because, you might've made a mistake, you might've done something you never should've done, but it's not your fault you did that, and fuck anyone who tries to tell you that it is, that's what I say."

You laugh, a little sadly. "You know your 'fuck anyone and everything that doesn't agree with you' doesn't work for me, right?"

He nods. "I know, of course I know. But that doesn't change the fact I still think this could be good for you."

"And if it's not? What if it just hurts me more?"

Brendon looks down. "Then I hope you'll still trust me enough to try it again when you're ready." 

There's a long moment and both of you stay silent, then you finally sigh and throw up your hands. "Fine! Let's go then, if this is really what you want to do."

He gives you a confused look as he takes your hand and starts out of his-  _yours it's both of yours now-_ house. "Why wouldn't I want to do this?"

"I dunno," you deadpan quickly, toeing your flip-flops on.

"(Y/N)." 

"I dunno," you say again, "Just that maybe it seems like a better idea to stay inside than have to walk around with some scarred girl holding your hand?" it starts out defiant, but by the end your voice breaks and you can't look him in the eye. It doesn't seem to matter how many times he's said your scars don't matter to him, you still can't fully believe him, because they look  _horrible_ to you and you don't understand how someone could just  _not care,_ like how Brendon doesn't. 

"(Y/N)." 

You keep your eyes very carefully on the ground. Huh, funny how you never noticed that cracked tile before, isn't it?

"(Y/N), fucking look at me, doofus." 

"Don't call me that," you mumble, looking back up at him and trying not to laugh because  _seriously, doofus is the best he can think up?_

"I don't know what I need to do to get this into your brain," he says slowly. "I don't care. I honestly don't fucking care about any flaw or scar you think you have on your body. Because they don't matter to me. Nobody, not anybody in this entire world, can honestly say they don't have flaws, and you know what? That's okay. Flaws, and scars, and stretch marks, they're all okay, because they just show us how  _human_ we are. We're fucking human, (y/n), and we all have flaws. And maybe yours might be more physical and noticeable, but in my opinion, that's so much better than if you were some asshole girl who didn't care about anyone."

"But if I hadn't fucked up," you mumble, "If I hadn't done...that...then I'd be-"

"We all have our flaws," Brendon repeats. "Your scars made you smarter. Not many people can say they've been through what you have and made it out okay, like you have. If you hadn't made them, God knows what you might've done instead. I, for one, don't want to even fucking think about it." 

You laugh a little, brushing a strand of hair out of your eyes. "And here I thought you didn't like making speeches."

He rolls his eyes but can't hide his smile. "If I had to pick between making a speech and letting you walk outside thinking  _that,_ I'd think the choice would be pretty obvious, wouldn't you?" 

"Whatever, old man," you smirk.

"Hey!" he gives you an aggrieved look. "I'm  _not_ old!" 

"Mhm. Sure." 

"I- you-" he groans. "Let's just go. The sun's gonna fucking set before we even get out there, at this rate." 

 

* * *

 

"Brendon," you whisper uncomfortably. "They're all looking at me." 

He gives you a look. "Nah, you're wrong. Definitely looking at me. I mean, how could you not look at someone this hot?" 

You roll your eyes and laugh despite yourself. "Really, now?" 

"Really," he says, deadpan. "I really am very hot." 

"Seriously, though," you try again after a moment, "They're all looking at me. Or, more specifically, my arms. And legs." 

Brendon looks around. "Hey, folks!" he calls brightly. You try not to groan. Really? You'd just told him  _that_ and his first response is to draw more attention to you both? 

"Brendon! Oh my God!" a group of girls with a resigned looking guy tagging along behind practically sprints up to him. You step back. You guess his plan had been to draw all the attention to himself; it it hadn't been, well, he'd succeeded at it anyways. 

"Hey! How are all of you doing today?" there are a chorus of goods and amazings and you just retreat further back, hoping none of them will notice you. 

They don't, at first, thank goodness, too overwhelmed with Brendon to even think about looking anywhere else, but then another couple of people run up, also freaking out, and the first group retreats a little. And then one of them locks eyes with you. 

"Who are you?" she asks. Surprisingly enough, it doesn't seem contemptuous or bitchy like you might expect from a jealous fangirl; just curious. 

"I'm...I'm (y/n)," you stammer out, drifting closer to Brendon subconsciously. You see his shoulders muscle stiffen up and he pauses for a fraction of a second. 

"Are you... were you with him?" she motions to Brendon. 

"Uh..." the girl doesn't  _look_ mad or like she's going to cuss you out or anything, but you can never be sure. "...yeah?" 

The first girl's eyes widen and she starts saying something you think could be 'you  _lucky duck'_ but before she can get it out, another one of them speaks up, in a kinda snotty voice. "You're lying. He wouldn't want to be with someone like  _you."_

You just stare for a moment. 

The rest of the group, including the girl who talked to you first, stare at the second one, too. 

Then the first one finally breaks the silence.  _"Taurie!"_

_"Excuse you?"_

The other voice belongs to- you turn around- Brendon. Unsurprisingly. 

The second girl- Taurie- sort of shrinks back. 

"I'm sorry," Brendon says, not sounding sorry at all, "Did you just say what I think you did? Because, sorry to say, but you're a bitch if you did." 

There's another sort of frozen silence, then the first girl starts laughing. And as if she broke a spell, the rest of you do, too, except for Taurie, who just stands there looking kind of shell-shocked. 

"You're even better in person, I swear," the first girl tells Brendon, grinning at him. Even though you know Brendon isn't about to go falling in love with her, you can't prevent the stab of jealousy shrouded in insecurity that comes. 

"Always trying to fulfill people's expectations," he grins back, before turning back to Taurie. "Unlike you, who somehow, miraculously, did a fucking limbo under mine for being a decent human being."

"I-" 

"You don't tell people that," he states slowly. "Ever. Yes, you can hate people. You can wish they'd never been born. But don't you ever say that to someone again. No fan of mine should ever hurt someone else intentionally like that." 

She just stares at Brendon for a long moment, eyes filling with tears, before practically bolting, running away as fast as she can. You feel kinda bad; the cynical part of you just wants to say she was only being honest, and no one should be punished for their honesty, and really, Brendon's words must've hurt a lot.

Never mind anyone else would say his words were correct and right, not only for telling her that it's unacceptable but to never do it again, and that all of it was justified. 

"I'm really sorry," the girl from before is saying to Brendon, then turns to you and says the same thing. The rest of her friends are nodding and murmuring apologies, too. "I swear, most of your fans are actually decent. Most of them aren't like that and I'm really sorry." 

"Don't worry about it," Brendon replies; you nod in agreement. "It's not your fault she's a shitty human being."

The other girl laughs a little. "Very true, I have to agree." 

"Anyways," Brendon goes on, "Are any of you guys feeling hungry right now?" 

 

* * *

 

By the time it's growing dark, the 6 of you- You, Brendon, and the four other fans- are full, those of you that aren't underage are slightly drunk, and you're all actually having a good time. 

"This was fun," you say softly, looking over at Brendon and smiling a little. 

"I agree." He returns your smile.

"You two need to stop being so cute, seriously," Renee- the girl who'd told off Taurie- tells the two of you, her smile belying the force of her words. 

"I dunno," Brendon replies, taking a swig of beer. "It's not really something we can turn on and off, is it, (y/n)?" 

"Shut up, you," you retort and punch him in the arm. 

"Oh shit," another one of the girls interrupts, motioning to the sky outside of the bar. "It's almost dark. We need to be heading back." 

"Really?" Alex, the at first reluctant tag-along dude of the group, gets up and takes a couple steps. "Yup, it's pretty dark. We need to be going back." 

"It was really great meeting you, Brendon, (y/n)," Renee tells the two of you, giving you a smile you think might be a  _go get em, girl_ kinda one that makes you turn red. 

"Likewise," you reply, standing up. "Hey, can I get your number, maybe?"

"What's this?" Brendon interrupts. "Cheating on me with one of my fans, are we?" 

You roll your eyes. "Shut it. I want a friend, you doofus." 

He holds his hands up in surrender. "As milady wishes, I suppose." 

"So, can I get your number? If you want to give it to me, of course, I don't mean to pressure you or anythin-"

Renee laughs. "Chill. I like you, don't worry. I think it'd be pretty hard not to, to be honest." she grabs her phone and creates a contact for you, asking her to recite your number to her before she shoots you a text so you have hers. 

"Again, it was great meeting you two!" she says again, grinning at both of you and seconded by her friends. "I'll see you... around, I guess." she gives a final wave and then both her and her friends are gone.

 

* * *

 

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he looks far too proud, in your opinion, so you just roll your eyes. 

"I guess not. Except for that girl."

"Well she was obviously very fucking wrong," Brendon decides, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. "You know that, right? You know she's just being a jealous bitch." 

"I..." logically, you know Brendon's right. But emotions aren't logical. "I...think so." 

"Well, she is," he murmurs into your hair, hugging you tighter. "You're just fine like you are." 

"Brendon," you start. "I-"  _love you, want to thank you for always being here for me, can never thank you enough, want you to know you're the reason I've never quite given up._

"Yeah?" there's a hopeful glint in his eyes for a second and you wonder if, maybe, you're both thinking the same thing. 

"-I...care about you a lot," you say awkwardly. Brendon's eyes narrow in what you think might be hurt. 

"Is that all?" he asks softly but challengingly. 

"Y-es?" 

He pulls away from you enough to look you in the eye fully. "Because I've kept this quiet for far too long and I think you deserve to know this now. (Y/N), I am in love with you." 

 

* * *

 

"I- Brendon-"

"You heard me." his eyes switch from soft to intense. "I love you." 

There's the strong urge to return the sentiment- and honestly, too, because, you're not gonna lie, you've been in love with him for months- but even stronger is the irrational and senseless urge to keep silent. 

"I- I can't-" 

"What- what do you- do you feel the same way?"

Your brain screams  _yes_ but your throat constricts, preventing you from saying it, even though Brendon's eyes change again, from intense to vulnerable and then to hurt when you stay silent. 

"I don't- I don't not love you," you stammer out, and  _fuck even that's hard._

Brendon bows his head. "I'm- sorry," he says softly, stiffly. "I shouldn't have said what I did, it seems."

"No!" you almost shout. "No, don't, don't be sorry. I- I don't regret hearing it." you will him to look back up at you.  _I love you._

"But you-" he stops, locks eyes with you. 

"I can't- I can't say it yet, Brendon," you whisper. "I don't know why. I want to, but I can't. I can't do it, Brendon, I want to but I can't, why can't I what's wrong with me wha-"

"Shh." you're back in his arms before you can blink, the scent-  _his_ scent- of leather, alcohol, and something clean and strong and comforting filling your nostrils. "It's okay," he soothes, "I understand."

"I'm sorry," you half mumble, half sob- since when are there even tears in your eyes, anyway?- "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, you're okay. You're okay, (y/n). I love you, and you're okay."

You nod wordlessly and bury your face into his chest. There's a silent  _I love you, too_ that hangs in the air; you only wish Brendon can hear it, too. 

"I know," he says softly, like he's read your mind. "I love you, and I know." 


	18. The End Of All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: mentions of self-harm 
> 
> (Btw, sorry if there are a lot of typos it's literally 2 in the morning and I got way too little sleep last night because I went to a Fall Out Boy concert and then yeah if you find something that makes no sense, please message me so I can fix it pronto)

**7 and a Half Months Later**

 

"Morning, Princess." Through the veil of your grogginess, you can faintly feel Brendon press a kiss against your shoulder. Your  _bare_ shoulder.

The thought doesn't terrify you like it once might've; instead, there's a moment of apprehension before you remember it's  _Brendon;_ Brendon who's been by your side for more than six months without fail, who's never intentionally hurt you and has always done his best to help you. Brendon that you  _love,_ who loves you. 

"Mornin'," you mumble back without opening your eyes, backwards further into him. "Whatcha doing up so early?"

Brendon half scoffs, half snorts. "Early? It's practically 11."

"Still too early." 

He laughs. "Yeah, well, tough luck. I have something planned for us today."

That makes you open your eyes, turning to look at him- in your defense, you  _do_ cover your chest as best you can, still unused to this level of intimacy (after all, it's been, what, a week since you first slept together- in every sense of the word-). "What, is today some kinda special day or something?"

Brendon just smiles. "Yeah, something like that."

 

* * *

 

 

"Brendon, where the fuck are we going?"

He just laughs, tugging you down the street with all the abandon of a puppy. "You'll see!"

You groan, resisting the urge to pull at nonexistent sleeves and try to match your pace to his. His footsteps take you past a bunch of stores, through a college campus, skirt around a park, and end up at a movie theater. 

_What?_

"Brendon?"

He finally turns around to face you. His hair is unusually well-done, his clothes more put together than his usual 'fuck-it-I'll-wear-jeans-and-maybe-a-shirt' view and he looks shy and a bit uncertain, nothing like the almost overly confident rockstar persona he puts out in interviews and on stage. 

"It was, um, the first theater we ever saw a movie together."

He leaves the words unspoken;  _our first real date._

"I, um," he continues when you stay silent, "I thought we could watch a movie. We needed to get out of the house." he laughs, a bit nervously, and you wonder again what exactly is going on. You don't  _think_ it's any of your anniversaries, but...

"What movie did you pick?" you're expecting some kinda action/horror movie, knowing Brendon as you do, but instead he just smiles. "I- uh, I heard the Fault In Our Stars was in this theater, just for a day or two, so..." 

You blink. "The Fault In Our Stars?" 

He nods, deflating a little. "Yeah. That's- that's okay, right?" 

Normally, Brendon wouldn't even care about asking your opinion- well, of course he'd care, but he wouldn't ask if you didn't like it; he expects you to voice an objection if you have one, and then he'll stop. Him just asking like that is...well, it's  _weird._

"Yeah," you say quickly. "That's fine, just was kinda weird. Not really your scene."

"Guess you just bring it out of me then, huh?" it's sincere; almost too sincere for your tastes, so you just grin back and link hands with him as you join the line for popcorn.

 

* * *

 

 

"So," he asks teasingly, bopping your nose, "What'd you think?"

You laugh, shaking your head at him. "Of course I liked it, silly. We have it on DVD at our house for a reason."

 _Our house._ Somehow, you've actually gotten used to calling it that now, after what, seven months of living there. It's still kinda weird to think about, even now, but at the same time, it's the best thing you _could_ think about. 

He sticks out his hand, wiggling his fingers and looking at you expectantly. You grab it, raising an eyebrow. "Where to next?" 

Brendon just smirks. "You'll see."

 

* * *

 

 

"...a _park?"_

Brendon lets go of your hand, shoving his own into his pockets awkwardly. "It, um...it was the one you met Renee, remember?"

Renee; your friend you met the day you first went outside with short sleeves and shirts. Right.  _That_ park. 

"Why are you bringing me to all these places?" 

He tilts his head, feigning ignorance. "What places? I'm just trying to show my girl a good time."

You give him a look. 

"What? Am I not allowed to do that now?"

"We both know that's a lie, Brendon." 

"Well, you're just gonna have to wait to find out, then," he decides, stopping by an ice cream truck to by the two of you ice cream cones. "Now come on, we're wasting daylight." 

 

* * *

 

 

"Brendon, what the  _fuck are you doing!?"_ he's standing right in front of you- of your  _swing_ as you barrel towards him, feet tucked as far up as you can and hands on the chains, trying to avoid him.

"Jump!" 

The swing jerks back, just narrowly missing Brendon by probably an inch, and starts back again. 

"Are you an idiot?" you yell at him as he steps even closer. 

"Come on, jump!" he holds his arms out, stepping back just a little as the swing veers towards him again. 

"I'm not going to fucking jump off a swing!" 

"Do you trust me?"

 _Of course he's gonna use that argument,_ you grouse inwardly. Well, what's the worst that can even happen, anyways? Brendon failing to catch you so you land on the mulch and maybe get a couple scrapes? It's not like you haven't had worse. 

"If you don't catch me, I'm going to murder you." and then you let go, leaping out of the swing...

...and land perfectly in his arms, safe and secure with his smug I-told-you-I'd-fucking-catch-you's in your ear. 

It occurs to you that, such a short while ago- barely months before- you never would've even considered doing that. 

 

* * *

 

 

The final place he leads you to, just as the sun is setting, is one you recognize instantly. And with the sighting of a rusty razor you had stashed there months before, before you had even met Brendon, you suddenly realize what today is.

You're six months clean. Today. And Brendon remembered that. 

"I haven't been here in ages," you hear Brendon comment behind you, looking around the old dance studio as you walk in. 

"Me, neither." 

Being in here brings back so many memories- all those times you'd be in here, either making yourself bleed or already bleeding; singing so loud you could hardly feel the tears running down your cheeks; that overwhelming emptiness and that one urge to just end it all. 

Looking back, you don't think you miss one bit of it. 

Brendon flicks the lights on, ushering you in further, towards the back studio where you first met- when you were sobbing, with a black eye from Kyle (who, surprisingly, hasn't molested you ever since Brendon's intervention) and fresh cuts on your arms. Somehow, it's not longer as painful to think about, mostly because you know it's over now. It's not going to happen ever again.

That's a comforting thought, really. 

"You okay there?" you're in the hallway between studios and the lighting's dim enough you can barely make him out, but what you can see looks so genuine and concerned and just-

"I love you."

He stiffens, eyes widening, and for a moment you think that maybe you've gone too far (impossible, because he's told you he's loved you several times over the months), before a slow smile spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, opening the studio door and leading you in. "That's quite fortunate."

And then he drops to one knee.

 

* * *

 

 

"Okay, before you ask, I don't have a ring. Sorry about that. I wasn't- I'm not- sure about whether you'll accept or not so I was being cautious." 

You just start laughing, helplessly, not really even sure how to process this. He's- he's- is he actually going to  _propose_ to you?

"Now, you know I'm not one for big speeches, but I  _can_ sing, so..." he takes a deep breath, goes over to the corner where a guitar is resting, and slings it over his shoulder. 

 _"Wise men say,_  
Only fools rush in,  
But I can't help falling in love with you,  
Shall I stay,  
Would it be a sin,  
If I can't help falling in love with you?"

He opens his eyes, determinedly not looking at you.

 _"Like a river flows_  
Surely to the sea,  
Darling so it goes,  
Some things are meant to be.  
Take my hand,  
Take my whole life too,  
For I can't help falling in love with you."

He finally makes eye contact, gulping.

 _"So take my hand- take my whole life too."_ His voice cracks.  _"For I can't help falling in love with you."_

"Elvis? Really?" is all you can say. It might've come out as annoyed if it weren't for the fact that your face is tear-stained and your eyes red. 

He smiles, laying the guitar back on the ground and walking back to you. "So what do you say?"

There's so much hope in his eyes, so much uncertainty, that it makes your heart hurt. And you know that there's not even the slightest desire to say no. Not to this. Not to  _him._

So you nod.

"Yes," you tell him. "Yes." 

 

* * *

 

 

**One Year Later**

 

"Brendon," you start slowly. You look down nervously into the folds of the elaborate white dress (Brendon wanted something flashier but you objected), trying not to think about the crowds of people watching you as you speak. 

"What is there to say, really?" you smile a little bit, meeting his eyes and carefully ignoring the pastor standing right next to the two of you (Brendon also objected to that but you overruled it). 

"You saved me, in every sense of the word. You helped me out of despair and you gave me the strength to save myself. The only reason I'm still alive- the only reason I've been  _clean_ for over a year, now- is because of you. You saved me. You helped me, you protected me, even when you didn't know I existed, even when you didn't know about what I was going through. I love you for that, for more, much more, so many reasons I can't even count them all, and I...this is my thank you. The thank you that you never asked for, that I'm giving you because you're the one that kept me alive, even when you didn't know it." 

There's polite applause, a few crying old people, but you don't take your eyes off of Brendon. 

He clears his throat, looking for a fraction of a second as nervous as you are- just because he feels at home on stage does  _not_ mean he likes big crowds, at all- and starts. 

Except, when he does so, they aren't words. 

Well, not exactly.

_"Whether near or far,_  
_I am always yours,_  
_Any change in time,  
_ _We are young again,_

_"Lay us down, we're in love, we're in love..._

_"In these coming years,_  
_Many things will change,_  
_But the way I feel,  
_ _Will remain the same._

_"Lay us down, we're in love, we're in love..."_

 

When he finishes, there's silence. And then the minister says, "I pronounce you man and wife."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of the road! I hope you enjoyed it and that you'll forgive the sort of weird ending. Thank you for sticking with me all these long months, through writer's block and all that kinda stuff, it's really appreciated. 
> 
> On other thoughts; so now that this fic is done, that means I'd only be writing one fic (Peterick Soulmates AU #spon) and, therefore, have time for another. At the risk of having a horribly embarrassing response of 0 comments, I'm gonna ask for a poll of what I should do next, just cause I'm horrible at making my own decisions.   
> So...  
> ~Incubus/Succubus!Patrick   
> ~Patrick/Reader  
> ~Gerard/Reader  
> ~Peterick Guardian Angel AU  
> ~??? Something I haven't thought of yet maybe? I'm always open for ideas.


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